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Full text of "Motion Picture Story Magazine, Dec. 1912"

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l^Kg J)ecember 





Scene from " The Informer " (page 74) '^ ' 

$100 to you if you solve the Mystery on page 116 

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Alice Hollistcr i 

Adele Lane 2 

Crane Wilbur 3 

l-'rancis X. Bushman 4 

I.eo I^elanev 5 

Lillian Walker 6 

Jack J. Clark 7 

Anna Q. Xilsson 8 

Kichard Neill 9 


Jack Warren Kerrigan 10 

Kuth Stonehouse ; 11 

Florence La Iladie 12 

Louise Glaum 13 

Marc McDermolt 14 

Florence Lawrence 15 

Dorothy Kelly 16 

Marion Leonard (colored art insert to sub- 
scribers only). 


'I'lic Country Boy Gladys Rooscfclt 17 

The Kerry Gow. Lulielfe Bryant 23 

'Twixt Love and Ambition Henry Albert Plnlli[is 35 

Linked by Fate Peter Wade 44 

The Regeneration of Worthless Dan Courtney Ryley Cooper 53 

From the Submerged John Olden 61 

At It Again. Lttlu Montanye 69 

The Informer Allen Stanhope 74 

The Debt Montanye Perry 81 

Miss Taku of Tokio Leona Radnor 87 

The Non-Conmiissioned Officer Robert Carlton Brown 94 

The Little Minister Edwin M. La Roche 103 

(Note: These stories were written from photoplays supplied bj^^ Motion Picture 
manufacturers, and our writers claim no credit for title and plot. The name of the 
playwright is announced when known to us.) 


The Great Mystery Play 1 16 

Chats with the Players 119 

Vaudeville in Moving Picture Theaters Robert Gran 124 

Musings of "The Photoplay Philosopher" 125 

The French Settlers (Prize Contest) 129 

The Tremolo Touch IVilliain Lord Wright 130 

Popular Plays and Players 131 

Answers to Inquiries 135 

Greenrooin Jottings 156 


Copyright, 1912, by The M. P. Publishing Co. in United States and (Jreat liritain. 

Entered at'the llrooklyn, N. V., Post Office as second-class matter. 
Owned' and published by The M. P. I'ublishinj? Co., a New York corporation, its 
office and principal place of business, No. 26 Court Street, Brooklyn, N. Y, 

J. Stuart BIackton» IVesident; E. V. Brewster, Sec.-Treas. Subscription, $1.50 a year 
in advance, including postage in the U. S., Cuba, Mexico and Philippines; in Canada, $2; 
in foreign countries, $2.50. Single copies, 15 cents, postage prepaid. Stamps accepted 
(2 or I cent stamps only). We do not want scenarios, stories and plots except when ordered by us. 
Subscribers must notify us at once of any change of address, giving both the old and 
the new address. 

Eugene V. Brewster Managing Editor 

Montanye Perry ) Aecn^;-,**. t?^;*^^^ f'Uv L. Harrington, Circulation Manager 

Edwin M. La Roche f -Associate Editors. y jj Kimmelmann, Advertising Director 

Western, and New England Advertising Representative: 

PuUen, Bryant & Fredricks Co., Chicago and Boston. 

New York Office (Adv. Dep't only) : Fifth Avenue Building, 23d Street and Broadway. 

THE MOTION PICTD8E STORY MAGAZINE, 26 Court Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 


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After reading these stories, ask your theater maoager to show you the films on the screen f 


CRANE WILBUR (P«th<Frtre.) 


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Volume IV 

Number 1 1 


The Country Boy 

(Path* FtJi») 


From the play of H. Handworth 

HERALDED by 3 great cloud of dust, 
and a cracking and snapping of 
a mighty horse-whip, the High 
Valley stage-coach swept around the 
gulch on two wheels, and drew up 
before Old Pete's ranch-house, with a 
prolonged whoa. Not that Stage-eoach 
Sandy had taken the whole trail at 
that speed — far from it, in these 
civilized days, when stage-coaches are 
held up only by daring damsels from 
the East in search of adventure denied 
them at home— but the latent dare- 
devil spirit within him could not re- 
sist bringing foi'th frightened gasps 
from the pale-cheeked girl who was 
his only passenger. 

She sat huddled in one corner, sur- 
rounded by numerous bags and coats 
and bundles, her feet and elbows 
braced against the swaying of the 


coach, her lips pressed tight in an 
effort to suppress her fear, which, 
however, found outlet thru her wide, 
startled eyes. 

This was Betty Williamson's very 
..first trip to the wild, much-storied, 
pictured, aye, Motion-Pictured, West, 
and she was forced to make it alone, 
and for her health. The doctor had 
promised that a few months in the 
clear, dry air of Colorado would 
restore the vigor to her drooping 
spirits, so her father had written to an 
old college friend, who had settled on 
a ranch, and made arrangements for 
his daughter's comfort. 

The railroad journey from New 
York had been much to Betty 's liking, 
but the loneliness of the long trail 
over plains and mountains, and thru 
canyons, now hot and flat and dusty, 



now between dark-timbered passes, 
now narrow and winding, clinging 
closely to the mountainside, while 
precipitous cliifs dropped away into 
the gully hundreds of feet below — all 
wore on the girl's shattered nerves. 
She started at each crack of the whip, 
and each lurch of the coach set her 
trembling; the sight of the narrow 
passes and the bottomless chasms 
struck terror to her heart. Small 
wonder, then, that when Sandy drew 
rein before Pete's ranch-house, Betty 
was almost too weak to stand. 

The unaccustomed gusto and speed 
of the lumbering vehicle's entry drew 
a crowd at once, and Betty alighted 
into the midst of High Valley's curi- 
ous citizens, a timid, trembling object, 
gazing with frightened eyes into a 
host of unfamiliar faces. At last, 
from out the mass, the features of her 
father's friend, "Old Peter," met her 
eye, bronzed and aged, to be sure, but 
still wearing the same smile as in the 
class-day picture she knew so well, 
and so she placed her hand trustingly 
in his, and began to feel a little less 

Beliind him stood a young man, also 
tall and bronzed, who exchanged a 
smile of friendly greeting with her, 
and then busied himself with her lug- 
gage. Betty felt that it might not be 
so bad out in Colorado after all, if 
cowboys and ranchmen were all as 
well-mannered as these. 

"For my old friend Jim's sake, 
welcome to High Valley, and to Old 
Peter's ranch!" was Pete's greeting, 
once they were within the shack-house. 
"And for your own sake, too, for I 
guess we're pretty much in need of a 
girl around these diggings, to brush 
up our manners. How about it, Bob ? ' ' 
he questioned, turning to the young 
man, who was following with the 

"This, Miss Williamson, is my 
right-hand man, and right-hearted 
friend, Bob Saunders," he added, 
slapping him affectionately on the 
back. "And this. Bob, is the young 
lady I warned you was coming to 
improve our etiquette." 

"We certainly are glad to have you 

come," Bob said, simply, clasping her 
hand firmly, and looking squarely into 
her eyes. "It is well for you that Pete 
warned us, tho — I sewed up the 
sleeve of this shirt this morning in 
honor of you." 

Betty laughed brightly. The novel 
informality of the place was getting 
into her veins already, like a tonic. 

"Here's Aunt Sally T" announced 
Pete, as an old negro woman shambled 
into the room. "She's our salvation. 
Whatever good is left in us is due to 
her. Aunt Sally, here is your new 
charge. You 've got to look after her, 
and see that she gets strong and 

"Lor!" she exclaimed. "Ah reck- 
ons that'll be th' easiest job ah done 
had sence ah been here. Aint noth- 
in' th' matter with them cheeks, 
they's as pink as that there table- 

And Betty suddenly realized that 
she was not at all frightened, but was 
really enjoying the novelty of new 
ways and new people. 

Her assurance was short-lived, how- 
ever, for, turning around to note the 
queer, rough furnishings of the room, 
she was startled to find a Chinaman 
standing behind her, calmly inspect- 
ing her dress. 

"Dont be alarmed. Miss Betty," 
Pete interposed, seeing her evident 
distrust of the man. "Hop Lee is 
perfectly safe ; he is our cook, and he 
will make you some of the most 
wonderful dishes you ever ate. Wont 
you, Hop?" 

Hop Lee continued to regard Betty 
with imperturbable expression for a 
moment, before vouchsafing a reply. 

"Makee like fun," he retorted, at 
length, and departed noiselessly, his 
hands tucked up inside his wide 
sleeves, his pigtail bobbing with each 
abbreviated step. 

Betty was nonplussed. 

"He isn't exactly polite," she ven- 

"Oh, that's just his way of saying 
'With pleasure!'" Bob assured her. 
"He's painfully polite, really. Why, 
he has more manners and customs 
than all the rest of us put together." 



Betty was not quite convincecl as to 
the race in general, hut she knew that 
she did not have to be afraid of that 
Chinaman, anyway. 

' ' Now take me around and show me 
all the things I've read about, cow- 
boys and bronchos and your wonder- 
ful scenery. I think I shall enjoy it 
more, now that I feel I'm in safe 
hands. ' ' 

And Pete, noting the eager expres- 
sion that lit up Bob's face at the 

his frank, free manhood, broad-think- 
ing, plain-speaking, true; she, rich in 
her woman's intuition, gentle, win- 
some, sincere. 

So, thru the afternoon they wan- 
dered. He took her to his favorite 
haunts of forest and cascade, found 
rare flowers for her, pointed out 
strange birds. When she exclaimed 
over the invigorating air, and threw 
back her head to enjoy it, he showed 
her how to draw in deep breaths of it 


suggestion, promptly detailed him to 
be her escort. 

So the two started out, but, if the 
truth be told, the scenery had not 
their undivided attention. For, after 
all, what in Nature is as wonderful as 
human nature, and what road more 
interesting than the road to friend- 
ship? While they looked down from 
the heights of the mountains, and 
watched, with enthusiasm, a typical 
round-up in the valley, they looked 
across from the heights of their 
ideality, and found their eyes on a 
level, each measuring up to the 
standard of the other: he, strong in 

correctly, till the canyon rang with 
their laughter over her quaint efforts, 
and the demon of illness knew that his 
dooni was sealed. 

It was the flaming face of the sun- 
set that recalled to them the hour, and 
sent them back to the ranch-house, 
where they said good-by, with the 
promise of more delightful climbs to 
come. Bob lingered at the door-step, 
after she had gone, and pledged him- 
self to the task of making her strong 
and well. But the boys, hovering 
near-by, could not know how worthy 
were his thoughts; they could judge 
only by appearances, and when a 



man stands stock still on a door-step, 
and stares at a door which has just 
closed on a girl, there is only one 
interpretation in the cowboy mind. So 
poor Bob, not being in the humor to 
stand their jokes, speedily took him- 
self off to his shack. 

The passing weeks flew by, with 
walks and climbs and pleasant talks, 
and, daily, Betty's health grew better, 
daily the bond of comradeship grew 
stronger — until, at last, she was quite 
well, and her father sent for her to 
come back to the handsome home in 
New York which so sorely needed her, 
and to her merry circle of friends. 
And Bob, awoke one day to find him- 
self standing in the middle of the 
road, a cloud of dust in the distance, a 
merry voice ringing in his ear — "IBe 
sure to write to me,' and a little piece 
of pasteboard in his hand, bearing 
the inscription : 



But he also awoke to several other 
things, and straightway went to his 
favorite mountain haunt to thresh 
them out. First of all, he loved Betty 
— Gloved her with the whole clean, un- 
tarnished soul of him — and he had let 
her go without telling her so. Next 
he found that Colorado was a barren, 
sunless, songless land without the 
glory of her presence. Then, the life 
of a ranchman and cowboy became 
unsatisfying; it led to no great 
heights of achievement, gave no grati- 
fication of ambition, no chance for 
much growth of mind. At last the 
thought took hold of him, and grew 
and grew, that if he went to the East, 
to the great city of opportunity, he, 
too, could achieve and do and become, 
for Betty would be there. 

He came down out of the mountain, 
the light of a great determination on 
his face, and the very day that saw 
Betty welcomed home, by friends and 
family, saw Bob mount the old stage- 
coach out in High Valley, with his 
comrades bidding him God-speed, and 
faithful Pete shouting admonitions 
after him. 

One wonders what a Westerner, 
bred in the vast rolling expanse of 
Nature's building, where mountains 
rise thousands of feet and roll down 
infinite depths, only to rise sky-high 
again — one wonders how the new 
Pennsylvania Station in New York, 
which seems so great a work to East- 
erners, impresses such a man. One 
wonders how the city of opulence, its 
hurry, its sham, strikes a man who has 
lived all his life where every stone 
rings true, and every man is known 
for what he is, rather than for what 
he has. 

But one must keep on wondering, 
for Bob's attitude will not enlighten 
him, owing to undue influence. I 
really doubt if he ever saw the sta- 
tion, or heard ifte noise in the street, 
for the picture in his eyes and the 
singing in his heart. As straight as 
steel to magnet, he was drawn to her 
house, and, as he approached it, she 
came down the steps with her mother 
and father. Genuine glad surprise 
shone in her face as she greeted him 
and presented him to her parents. 
Her handclasp Jbespoke the same good- 
fellowship as before, but Bob was to 
meet his first rebuff in the indifferent 
attitude ""f the girl's father, the cold- 
ness of her mother, and in the call of 
social duty, which forced them to step 
into the waiting motor and drive off, 
leaving him standing, alone, on the 

Alone in a great city, hemmed in by 
high brick walls! Alone, with no- 
where to go, and Betty speeding out 
of sight! Alone! And the joy of 
return, and meeting and being to- 
gether, past! 

For many blocks he walked on, 
dazed, until he came to a fire-house, 
into which the firemen were trying to 
back an engine. Instinctively, he 
offered to help, and, when he got his 
hand on the powerful machine, he 
found a satisfaction in pitting his 
strength against it. It seemed to take 
the pressure from his mind. 

"I believe I should like to become 
a fireman," was his unexpected reply 
to the men's word of thanks. 

A man looked him over critically. 



"You'd do," he declared. "You've 
got the huild for it. Why dont you 
take the civil service examination? 
Here's a card that will tell you all 
about it." 

And so it happened that Boh he- 
came a fireman. And how he achieved 
fame, and what he dared and did, we 
shall see. 

It is a bright, sunshiny morning, 
some weeks later, and Mr. William- 
son is seated in the window of the 
factory ofiice, the sun streaming down 
upon his desk, examining some tex- 
tiles under a maguifying-glass, when 
Betty bursts in, 
and begs him to 
show her around 
the new building. 
Reluctantly, h e 
puts d w n his 
work, and goes 
with her, show- 
ing her the new 
machinery, a n d 
introducing h e r 
to the foremen. 

Now, it hap- 
pens that the 
has been laid on 
a piece of paper, 
a n d directly in 
the sunlight. Be- 
fore many min- 
utes have passed, 

from the magnified raj's there springs 
a little tongue of flame, which twists 
and turns and gi'opes and reaches 
out, quickly consuming the paper. 
Unsatisfied, it spreads toother papers, 
crackling them in its grasp — and now 
the cloth — to the woodwork of the 
desk — growing stronger with each new 
ai-ticle it feeds on. Soon the whole 
desk is burning, and the flames have 
spread to the rug, the floor, the walls, 
consuming hungrily, insatiably, every- 
thing they touch. Smoke begins to 
fill the building, men rush for chem- 
ical extinguishers, girls flee to stairs 
and fire-escapes, while the fire gains 
greater headway, roaring, sputtering, 
hissing, in its greediness. 

Fireman Bob is sitting in his quar- 


ters, in a thoughtful, almost dejected, 
attitude, which has become almost 
habitual with him, except when 
called to action, when the alarm 
rings. He is on his feet and into his 
boots in an instant, and slides down 
the pole a full minute ahead of his 
fellows. The alarm shows the fii'e to 
be in the center of the factory dis- 
trict, a fact which is enough to strike 
terror to the stoutest heart. Another 
half-minute, and they are speeding to 
the rescue. 

Meanwhile, the smoke in the build- 
ing has become blinding. Betty, 
separated from her father by fright- 
ened factory- 
hands, has been 
driven to the top 
of the building, 
by the ever in- 
ci-easing heat and 
smoke. She 
uudces her way to 
the w i n d o w , 
stifled for a 
breath of air. 
She leans out, in 
an efl:ort to call, 
li u t no sound 
comes from her 

Below, men are 
shouting orders, 
t li e fire - engine 
has arrived, and 
the in en are 
playing the hose and adjusting the 
ladders. A frenzied man — people say 
he is the owner of the factory — cries 
out: "My daughter! Save my daugh- 
ter! She must be on the top floor! 
We were separated ! Who will save 

Bob, who has kept his head in this, 
his first great fire, has seen a girl lean 
out of the top-story window, and then 
stagger back. With iron nerve, he 
adjusts the ladder and makes his way 
up. The flames roar at him in fury, 
the dense smoke all but suffocates him. 
At last he reaches the window, and 
climbs in. 
Then for her, blessed oblivion ! 



For him, the realization that for 
this has he been called out of his 
native West; for this has his spirit 
yearned to be strong and to achieve. 
For a moment, the exaltation and the 
glory of it fires him. Then the agony 
of the situation sweeps over him, and 
fear assails him for the first time in 
his life — fear for his so precious 
burden. Hesitation, doubt, mistrust 
of his own prowess wring him thru 
and thru, only to give way before the 
power of his tremendous will, and, as 

he steps out upon the ladder, he is 
once more the fireman — calm, cool- 
headed, unflinching, answering the 
call of duty and of humanity. 

The picture seems to fade. I can- 
not see distinctly, for the smoke that 's 
in my eyes. And yet I feel, I know, 
that all is well. 

The Kerry Gow 



V This play was purchased from Mr. Joseph Murphy, the original author, and produced in Ireland by the Kalem 
Company, under the direction of Sidney Olcott.) 

"X TOW listen to me, Miss Nora; are 
In y^ goin' to mind what I'm 

"Not if you're goin' to be cross, 

Nora Drew laughed roguishly at 
tile exasperated look that Alice Doyle 
fi.xed upon her, and, when Nora 
laughed, the twinkle, that always 
danced in her Irish-hlue eyes, leaped 
forth into quivering, dazzling lights 
that made her irresistible. In spite 
of herself, the older woman smiled at 
the sunny face. 

"Cross, is it?" she said, hastily. 
"Faith! is it me that ye call cross? 
No one ever saw me cross but Dennis, 
and, sure, if a woman cant get cross 
at her own husband, there's no use 
gettin' married at all, at all!" 

"Now, Alice, dear, sure it's little 
you mean what you 're sa.yin '. ' ' 

"Dont I? Mind me now, Miss 
Nora ; a married woman has some 
experience iu life, and that same ex- 


perience teaches her not to waste her 
temper on outside parties, when she 's 
a husband at home who needs the 
benefit of it." 

"Well, then, dont be scolding me 
for teasing Dan a little. ' ' 

"Dan's a fine lad, and it's time 
enough to be teasin' him after ye get 
him, tho it's true that men are a 
desavin' lot, and a woman's not to be 
blamed for distrustin' 'em. Whin a 
man axes for your heart, he'll kneel at 
your feet and sigh, but whin he's got 
it sure, he buttons it up in his breast- 
pocket, and forgets whin he bruises 

' ' That 's a terrible reputation you 're 
giving the men, Alice ; I dont think T 
shall ever marry at all. But, look, 
who is tliat coming?" 

Both women leaned forward, look- 
ing at a solitary horseman who was 
dismounting beside the low hedge that 
separated the farmyard from the 
smooth country road. He was in 



military dress, and, as he came for- 
ward, doffing his cap respectfully, his 
eyes lingered, with evident pleasure, 
on Nora. Her cheeks were flushed a 
trifle with the excitement of greeting 
a stranger; her brown curls were 
ruffled by the crisp breeze, and the 
blue eyes, that met his so frankly, 
were very pleasant. 

"May I trouble you for a drink of 
water?" the stranger asked. "I am 
exhausted from a tramp over your 
green hills, and I will repay your 
kindness by presenting you with a 
brace of birds." 

"In Ireland, sir, we dont take pay 
for hospitality," replied Nora, but 
Alice interposed, offering a brimming 
mug of water, while she stretched out 
a hand for the birds. 

"Arrah whist. Captain, never mind 
the girl. Sure, she dont like to touch 
anything that's dead. She has given 
ye the sentiment, but I'll take the 

"For shame, Alice!" cried Nora, 
impulsively, but Alice, laughing, ran 
off with the birds, and Nora was left, 
perforce, to entertain the stranger. 

"A pretty place you have here," he 
said, his eyes taking in the quaint 
beauty of the prosperous homestead, 
with its comfortable cottage and 
dairy, its wide-spreading trees and 
well-kept gardens. "And is this your 
brother coming?" 

The quick blush that spread over 
Nora's face, as she turned to greet the 
stalwart young man who was hurry- 
ing toward her, was proof that the 
newcomer was not a brother, even 
before she spoke, with winning shy- 

"Oh, no, sir, this is Dan." 

"And who might Dan be?" he 
queried, laughing at her shyness. 

"I'm called about here the Kerry 
Gow," replied Dan, speaking for him- 
self, good-naturedly, as he saw noth- 
ing but honest friendliness in the 
stranger's eyes ; "and you, sir, are the 
Captain of the soldiers." 

"Right you are, my lad, but what 
does Kerry Gow mean?" 

"The Kerry blacksmith, sir." 

"Oh, then you must be Dan 

O'Hara," said the Captain, looking at 
Dan with new interest. "Well, I've 
heard you well spoken of, and I doubt 
not you'll present a clean record when 
my men call at your shop." 

"There's no man in County Kerry 
with a cleaner one, sir," was the 
proud reply, and, as the Captain, 
with a last admiring glance at the 
pretty Nora, rode away, Dan looked 
down at Nora with an adoring smile. 
"Sure, it aint his min that are 
troublin' my heart," he said softly, 
"it's a slip of a teasin' girl, and ye 
know her name, Nora, dear." 

"Whatever did the Captain mean 
about the soldiers comin' to your 
shop, Dan? It scares me! What's it 
about a clean record — ^what's the 

"No trouble for me, my darlin', at 
all. But you know there's trouble- 
some times in Ireland just now, and 
the Government is searchin' all over 
the country for concealed arms and 
the likes of that ; so I suppose they're 
comin' to my shop to see if my work is 
honest, and no swords or pikes around 
my forge." 

"Pikes are what they fight with, 
aint they?" 

"You're right ; that's what the boys 
in Ireland use when they discourse 
politics with the Government." 

"What could they do with a black- 
smith if they found him makin' 

"Hangin' is the penalty; for one 
blacksmith could arm hundreds of 
rebels. But you've no cause for fear ; 
Dan 'Hara niver works in the dark, 
and they're welcome to all the pikes 
they can find in my forge. But, 
Nora, dear, niver mind all that now ; 
tell me, when are you goin' to say yes, 
and marry me?" 

Nora's face settled into wistful 
lines, and the twinkle fled from the 
blue eyes, at the serious tone. 

"I'd like to say yes, Dan," she 
whispered, "but you haven't got 
father's consent yet, and I cant talk 
to you until you do. You see, my 
mother's dead, and he's no one but 
brother Raymond and me to comfort 
his old age, and, since Raymond went 



off to school, father seems to depend 
on me more and more. But now that 
Raymond's come home, I'm thinkin' 
he will help us out, for he likes you, 
Dan. Sure, here comes father now, 
with Raymond and Major Gruff, and 
they all look as serious as tlie priest 
on a Sunday. You 'd better go, Dan ; 
I'm thinkin' it's no time to be arguin' 
with father just now." 

With a quick pressure of his sweet- 
heart's fingers, Dan obeyed her sug- 
gestion, and she turned to the ap- 
proaching men, asking, anxiously, 
about the eaiise for their grave faces. 

"It's just this, Nora," the Major 
said. "Your father is in sore trouble, 
and I've proposed a possible way out 
of it, but he wont listen to me, and it's 
angry at me lie is for even mentionin' 

"What is the trouble ? ' ' Nora asked, 

"The girl needn't be bothered witli 
it," Patrick Drew began, angrily, but 
Raymond interrupted him. 

' ' Yes, ' ' he said, ' ' Nora must know ; 
it is better for her to be prepared, 
than to have trouble come unex- 
pectedly. You see, Nora, fatlier mort- 
gaged tlie farm to get money for my 
college education. I never knew it 
until today, when the Major told me, 
against father's wishes. In two weeks 
the mortgage falls due, and there is 
no money to pay it. It seems that we 
will have to leave the old home." 

"Leave the old home!" Nora 
echoed, her cheeks whitening. "Oh, 
surely, there is some way to raise the 
mone.y — what can we do?" 

"There's just one thing could be 
done, Nora," declared the Major, 
"but your father wont listen to 
reason. There's to be races hei"e soon, 
and I've been tryin' to get him to 
allow Raymond to run his hoi'se — 
there's a good purse up, and the 
money would save the place. But 
your father dont believe in racin', 
and he wont consent. ' ' 

"No, I wont," declared Patrick 
Drew, turning an angry face to his 
son. "I dont believe in horse-racin', 
boy ; ye know that. It 's the edieation 
of a gintleman I've given ye, and I'm 

not sorry I mortgaged the place to do 
it, even if it's causin' me bitter 
trouble now. Somehow, it'll come out 
right. But mind what I'm sayin' — 
ye've a fine horse, but whin the races 
come off, ye '11 leave that horse to eat 
his oats in peace in his own stable." 

"Who holds the mortgage?" asked 
Nora, suddenly. Her eyes were fixed 
on a man who was coming up the 
road, and there was a look of startled 
dread and fear in their blue depths. 

"Hay, the land-agent — and there 
he comes now," Raymond exclaimed, 
his eyes following his sister's. 

There was an evil smile lurking on 
the land-agent's face as he greeted the 
little group, with elaborate politeness, 
and requested a few words with 
Patrick Drew, alone. Nora looked 
after them with troubled eyes, as they 
went into the house, and, as she 
Avalked slowly down to the hedge and 
stood leaning on the little wicker gate, 
she wondered, sorrowfully, if iier 
brother had told her all the trouble. 
Somehow, she felt sure that he had 
withheld something, and the dread in 
her eyes deepened as she thought of 
Hay's evil smile. A step sounded on 





the grass, and Hay stood close beside 
her, bowing low, as he spoke in smooth 

"How fortunate I am, Miss Nora. T 
feared I should not have a chance to 
speak to you." 

"Please let me alone," begged poor 
Nora. "It's come out here I have to 
fly from sorrow ; dont pursue me with 

"That's the farthest from my in- 
tentions, pretty one. Hasn't your 
father told you that I bought up the 
mortgage on purpose to save you and 
yours from trouble — that all you have 
to do is accept my suit, and I give the 
papers to him?" 

"So that's the part they wouldn't 
tell me!" cried Nora, her cheeks 
blazing. "And you think I'd sell my- 
self to you! You were never more 
mistaken, Mr. Hay. The Drews aint 
that kind of folks." 

"Ah," he sneered, "then it is true, 
as I heard. You prefer the black- 
smith — that poor, ignorant lad." 

' ' Poor he is, but not ignorant — nor 
is he blaek-soiiled like yourself! Be- 
tween you and him there lies a gulf 
you can never bridge. It's me that 
will share poverty with him, if need 

"You'll talk differently, my pretty 
lady, two weeks from now, when you 
see your old father leaving his home,'' 
Hay growled, angrily, as he climbed 
into the smart trap that awaited him 
by the roadside. "Just think it over 
till I see you again — ^perhaps your 
precious blacksmith wont look so good 
to you, then." 

Rage burned in the land-agent's 
heart, as he drove homeward, his 
feelings tingling with the fearless 
girl's rebuff. 

"If it wasn't for the blacksmith, it 
would be easy," he muttered. "Some- 
how, I 've got to get rid of him ! Once 
he's out of the way, she will give in, 
rather than see her father suffer." 

But the blacksmith had no inten- 
tion of getting out of the way. On the 
contrary, his sympathy and devotion 
in their time of trouble won favor 
from Patrick Drew. Every day Dan 
came to the Drew homestead wjtU 

some word of cheer or some new sug- 
gestion, and the old man learnt to look 
for him with kindly eyes. 

"Ye 're a good lad, and I appre- 
ciate your kindness; it's like another 
son ye seem to me, ' ' he said one day, 
and Dan looked up quickly, his eyes 
kindling. Now was the chance for the 
question he had so dreaded to ask. 

"Arrah, and that's just what I'd 
like to be, Mr. Drew," he said, his 
honest face flushing; "if ye'd let me 
be a son to ye in real earnest, there 'd 
be two sons, instead of one, to work 
for ye, in case things go wrong." 

Then, as Nora came forward, slip- 
ping her hand into Dan's, and look- 
ing, pleadingly, at her father, he 
suddenly understood. 

"What — rob me of my Nora, now, 
when I 'm losin ' everything else ? " he 
said, sadly. "Ah, Dan, it's another 
sore trouble you're bringin' upon 

"Ah, no, sir," cried poor Dan; 
"dont say that — sure, we love each 
other, and it's far from me to be 
wantin' to take her heart from ye. 
There's room in it for us both, and 
we'll both be good children to ye." 

"Well," consented the old man, 
slowly, "it's a sore trouble to give her 
up, for it seems like puttin' your 
heart between hers and mine. But 
she's lookin' up in my face with her 
mother's eyes — and I cant say no. 
Take her, Dan; thank God, you're a 
good, honest man." 

With a cry of joy, Dan caught Nora 
in his arms, and there was a moment 
of perfect happiness. Only a moment, 
however, for, to Dan's amazement, a 
heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and a 
stem voice said : 

"I believe you told me your name 
was Dan O'Hara?" 

It was the Captain who had made 
their acquaintance a week before, and 
Dan looked at him wonderingly as he 
replied: "I did, that." 

"Then I am very sorry, but my 
duty compels me to make you my 

"Now, did any one iver see the like 
of this?" cried Dan. "What have I 
done to a livin' soul that I should 



be a prisoner? What's the charge, 

"Pike-maker for the rebels. In- 
formation was given ; yovir shop was 
searched, and a quantity of pilces was 
found in your forge." 

"Oh, Dan," screamed Nora, cling- 
ing to him desperately, "it isn't true, 
is it ? Why, it means death — ^j'ou told 
me so ! " 

"Aisy, Nora, dear," said Dan, 

it will be found out. Give me a smile 
now, to take to my prison cell with 

"Evei-ything shall be done to clear 
this up, Dan," said Patrick Drew, 
taking the blacksmith's trembling 
hand. "Raymond will help you, and 
the Major. We all believe in you." 

"Then I'll keep up my courage," 
Dan answered. "Good-by, sweetheart, 
and hope for the best, but if the worst 


patting her head, as he tried to speak 
calmly. "(Captain," he continued, 
looking that officer straight in the 
eyes, "I niver made a pike in me life; 
I cant undenstand — who gave the 
information ?" 

"I cannot say — it was under seal. 
I am sorry for you, Dan ; I only 
execute my orders. ' ' 

"Now, Nora, darlin'," said Dan, 
bravely, "dont weep like that; it's 
some mistake that will be set right. 
Some one is wantin' me out of the 
way — I dont know who it can be, but 

comes, remember that Dan O'llai'a 
was an innocent man, and that he died 
lovin' ye in his last minute. Be brave, 
me darlin'." 

But, as Dan marched calmly away, 
between the lines of soldiei's, Nora 
fell, fainting, into her father's arms. 

"Ah, well, the days do seem terrible 
dreary," sighed Dan, sitting by the 
little table in his cell. "Well, as long 
as we have soldiers and jailers, 
they've got to be after eai-nin' their 
money some way, I suppose. Society 




wouldn't feel aisy unless it had some 
poor boy under lock and key, and, 
faith ! being locked iip in a stone jug 
like this doesn't improve a nmn like 
it does liquor." 

"Hello, Dan," a voice interrupted 
his musings. It was the Captain, who 
had come in so quietly that Dan had 
not heard the sound of the door open- 
ing. "I hope they are making you 
comfortable. Is there anything I can 
do for you 1 ' ' 

rj avexrx^-v.ja!- 

■'Sure, I'm as 
comfortable as a 
man can be, 
penned up like 
this," the prison- 
er replied, "and 
it's kind of ye to 
be comin' in to 
see me, sir." 

"I've got a 
nice surprise for 
you, Dan. Whom 
would you like to 
see coming, just 

"Faith! I see 
it in your eyes — 
it's Nora! Can 
it be true, sir, 
and me with my 
eyes a-hungerin' 
for her sweet face 
till it's half 
crazed I am?" 

"Well, keep 
sane a few min- 
utes longer, ' ' 
laughed the Cap- 
tain, as he left 
the cell, and Dan 
stared after him, 
listening eagerly for the light foot- 
fall he hardly dared to hope for. 
At last it came — a quick tread — a 
hasty rush thru the cell door — ^two 
arms stretched out to him — a sweet, 
tear-drenched face upturned to his. 

"Oh, Nora, dear," he sighed, "is it 
yourself? Do I hold you in my arms 
again, or is it another dream?" 

"Ah, Dan, when they shut you up, 
they put my heart in a vise at the 
same minute ; it echoes every sigh you 
utter, and, if they send you to the 

scaffold, it's two lives tliey'll be takin', 
for my soul will be seekin' yours." 

"Aisy, now; dont be talkin' that 
way. Sure, when the scaffold is built 
for me it's time enough for me to be 
complainin' of sore throat." 

Dan's old, confident smile accom- 
panied this assertion, and his eyes 
were so merr^' and bold that Nora 
looked up with quick suspicion. 

"What do you mean, Dan?" 

'Now, darlin', 

»',yrv.r**i»*<^nj>vt*qBCVWJg»'cyffv jj 


31! listen to every 
word, for I have 
to talk low and 
quick. Last night 
I stood up on the 
cot, and was look- 
in' out of me 
window, there, 
and who should I 
see but D i n n y 
Doyle, hidin' be- 
low, at the foot 
o f the prison 
wall, waitin' in 
hopes that, some- 
how, I'd see him, 
and he could be 
after helpin' me. 
So I took a pin, 
and pricked a 
message on a bit 
of paper, and I 
told him to go to 
me shop and find 
a pair of breeches 
and boots, just 
like the ones I 
have on, and to 
bring them here 
in the night. 
Well, he did it, 
and he tied them to a long string, 
wid a stone on the other end, and 
threw the stone up till it caught in the 
bars of the Avindow. Thin, ye see, I 
drew up the clothes, and I have 'em 
hid under the bed. Now, tonight, I'll 
dress up a dummy in the clothes, here 
by the table, and, when the guard 
comes in wid my supper, I'll be 
standin' close by the door, and slip 
out before he discovers that the man 
wid his head on the table is only a 
dummy man. Once outside that door, 



it'll be aisy, for you must have Dinny 
waitin' for me wid a boat, at the foot 
of the prison wall. It's ouly a big 
dive, and I'm free! Dinny will pick 
iiie up in the boat — hist, there comes 
the guard!" 

"I'm sorry to hurry you, Miss 
Nora," said the Captain, looking at 
the couple with pitying eyes, "but the 
time's up. She can come again, you 
know, Dan." 

"Now, dont cry, darlin'," coaxed 

work later, now that Dan's in prison, 
and, what wid the spies a-watchin' 
him ivery minute, it's hard to get 
done at all, at all. And how are ye 
feelin' about Dan by this time? 
Maybe now ye wont pout at me if I 
scold ye for teasing Dan — didn't I 
tell ye that ye shouldn't be plaguin' a 
man till after ye got him, and now ye 
may niver get him at all!" 

"Oh, Alice," Nora begged, tear- 
fully, "dont talk like that— if Dan 


Dan; "we'll just live in hopes that 
the truth will coirie out." 

So Nora, hushing her feai's at the 
hazard that Dan was about to run, 
went away with a lighter heart than 
she had brought. Thei'e had been no 
time to perfect the plan for escape, 
but her quick wit had caught the 
idea, and slie knew that Denn.y Doyle 
would not fail in his part. Straight 
to Denny's home she went, bursting 
eagerly into the little cottage, and 
asking anxiously for Denny. 

"Sure, he's not home from the 
forge yet," said his wife; "he has to 

should go to the gallows my heart will 
break! But. you know" — she came 
nearer, looking around fearfully as 
she whispered — "you know what's 
going to be done tonight, dont vou?" 

"Do I know ? Faith ! the man that 
can keep a woman from findin' out 
what she wants to know is more than 
mortal! Why, Dinny couldn't be 
readin ' the pin message at all, whin he 
got it! He brought it home to me, 
and I soon studied it out for him." 

"Well, Dan wants Denny to be 
waitin' tonight, when he dives off the 
wall of the prison. Oh, Alice, it scares 




me so to think of it ! Dont you think 
it 's an awful dangerous thing for Dan 
to do?" 

"Less danger than stayin' where he 
is, waitin' for them to come and hang 
him," said Alice, grimly. "Niver 
fear, child; Dinny and me will pick 
hiin up and hide him as safe as a bug 
in a rug. ' ' 

"Oh, are you goin' with Denny? 
Then I can go, too, cant I ? " 

"Not a bit of it; 

y you've to stay close 

^■B ^^ at home, until I 

^HL^H. come to see ye. 

noon, and Nora's face was white and 
drawn with the long strain of waiting, 
when she saw Alice running across the 
field that separated their homes. 

"It's all right, Nora, dear, it's 
all right," she called, breathlessly. 
"Dan's a free man, and nobody can 
touch him now, glory be!" 

' ' Hush ! ' ' cautioned Nora. 

"There's no need to hush, my dear. 
Wait till I tell ye. Dan got away, 
just as he planned. 
Oh, but ye ought 
to have seen h i m 
fling himself ofl: that 


some time tomorrow morning. Yes ; I 
know it will be hard to wait for news, 
but listen to me, me dear. His escape 
will l)e known within three minutes of 
the time he leaves his cell — the first 
place the}' '11 watch is your house. 
You must be there, actin' as innocent 
as a lamb — dont ye see?" 

Noi-a saw, and, tho the night seemed 
interminable, she stayed quietly at 
home, praying fervently while the 
long hours dragged by. With the 
early dawn, she began to watch for 
Alice's coming, but it was mid-fore- 

wall — it seemed an hour to me before 
lie struck the water and we had him 
safe in the boat. We got hiin away, 
tho they was a-firin' after us before 
we'd gone far, but they might better 
have saved their bullets. For, listen 
to this! The man who hid the pikes 
in the forge wint and confessed, last 
night. If Dan had waited half an 
hour longer, he could have walked out 
the door, a free man, instead of 
jumpin' ofl' the wall into the sea — but 
sure. Dan always loved a bit of excite- 



"But who hid the pikes? What 
object did he have ? ' ' 

"His name is Kiei-nan; he's a 
worthless fellow, but when he found 
his act was goin' to cost Dan O'Hara 
his life, his conscience would give him 
no rest, and he owned up. But what 
his motive was, no one can get out of 
him ; he wont say what made him do 

"The mortgage money is due this 
afternoon," she sighed, "and there's 
no money to pay it. Hay will take the 
place, and I dont know what we shall 

"Niver ye fear; you've your 
brother and Dan both to work for 
ye," consoled Alice. "Ye ain't goin' 
to starve for a long time yit ! ' ' 


it. But — now dont breathe a word of 
this — your brother and the Major and 
my Dinny have had their heads to- 
gither, and they think Hay was at the 
bottom of it. They say he wanted to 
get rid of Dan, so he could have ye 
for himself. So just ye keep quiet and 
watch, and something will be comin' 
to light yit!" 

But the mention of Hay had 
started Nora's thoughts in a new 
direction, and she sighed dismally. 

"But the dear old home — I love it 
so," sighed Nora. 

In spite of her great thankfulness 
for Dan's escape, she was very un- 
happy, as she thought of her father's 
distress at losing his home. 

"Where's Dan?" she asked, sud- 

"Down to his shop, hammerin' 
horseshoes as if nothin' had ever 

"I'm goin' to run down to see 



him," she declared. "I'll feel better 
when I see liim, with my own eyes. 
You go in tlie liouse, Alice, and try to 
cheer father up — I'll soon be back." 
• When she reached the shop, Dan 
was pounding away busily, shoeing a 
splendid coal-black horse, but he 
stopped instantly, to take Nora into 
his strong arms. 

"It's good for sore eyes ye are, 
darlin'," he vowed, "but, sure, ye 

"It's everything to ye; Raymond 
has entered liis horse, unbeknownst to 
your father — and right he is; it's for 
the old man's own good, and he'll see 
it wliin the money is won to save the 

"But maybe Raymond wont win." 

"You bet he will win, and Dan 

O'llara's the man that's goin' to see 

that he does. Listen, Nora" — he bent 

close to her, whispering — "do ye 


dont look as happy as ye ought to, wid 
me .iust escaped from the hangman!" 

"Oh, Dan, I am happy and thank- 
ful — but poor father feels. so bad, and 
the old home has got to go— it seems 
wicked to be happy when father feels 
so terrible. You know the mortgage 
is due this afternoon." 

"Cheer up, sweetheart; somethin' 
else is due this afternoon, too." 

"What do you mean?" 

' ' Sure, the races come off this after- 
noon. ' ' 

"But what's that to us?" 

mind this horse I'm shoein'? Aint he 
a beauty? He ought to be — he's the 
famous Stai'light, the horse that's 
never been beaten — and that villain 
of a Hay has brought him here to race 
against Raymond this day, and spoil 
our hopes of winnin' the purse. But 
that hoi-se will never win — it's Dan 
O'llara that's a-shoein' him now, and 
all's fair in love and war — that horse 
wont be in shape to win a race!" 

Nora pulled away from Dan's arms, 
suddenly, and looked straight into his 



"You cant do that, Dan." she said, 
sharply. ' ' That 's not fair! ' ' 

"Fair, is it? Does he play fair? 
Have I got a reason to be fair to him? 
Listen, child; I didn't mean to tell ye 
yet, but ye can keep a secret. Ray- 
mond and the rest of them have found 
out that it was Hay that made all my 
trouble — he hired the fellow to hide 
the pikes in my forge, so I'd be out of 

belonged to my best friend. Hay 
doesn't suspect that I know what 
horse this is, or he'd niver have sent 
him here, but he needn 't worry — Dan 
O'Hara will play fair." 

"And we'll win, just the same," 
declared Nora ; "just see if we dont — 
but, oh, Dan, how can I ever wait till 
the race is over, for the news ? You '11 
all be there, watchin ', but I must stay 


bis way. Have I got a right to get 
even? Hay '11 be arrested for con- 
spiracy as soon as ever the race is 

The girl's eyes never wavered as 
they held her sweetheart's steadily. 

"He's a false man, but you're a 
true one, Dan. We cant win the race 
at the price of your honor." 

For a moment Dan hesitated ; then 
he bent and kist Nora's hand. 

"Right ye are, me darlin'," he 
said. "Sometimes a man sees ci'ooked, 
and it takes a woman to set him 
straight. I'll shoe the horse as if it 

home with father, eatin' my heart out 
with suspense." 

"No; I've been thinkin' of that, 
and I've a fine way figured out, to 
keep you posted. You know your 
little carrier-pigeons? I'm goin' to 
take thi-ee of them wid me, in a basket, 
and after each heat I'll let one of 
them loose, with a note tied to its 
neck. 'Twill fly straight to ye — and 
you'll have the news. Now run along, 
me darlin', and let me finish this work. 
And pray God that the race may be 
ours — sure He ought to give ye that 
reward, when your sweet, honest soul 



kept me from a mean, dishonest way 
of winnin' the prize, and He will. 
Tonight, at sundown, we'll all be 
standin' together by the old home, 
and your father will be thankin' us 
for disobeyin' him." 

And Dan's prophecy came true. 
The setting sun that night touched a 
happy group on the green lawn of the 
Drew homestead. 

"I cant hardly believe it, yet," 
Patrick Drew was saying, his eyes 
dwelling fondly on his children. 
"First, when Nora told me the horse 
was runnin', in spite of my orders, I 
was mad — then I begun to think what 
it would mean ! Then, when the little 

white pigeons begun comin' with their 
messages, I forgot everything else, 
and just hung on their wings like an 
old gambler! Sure, my old grand- 
father was a sportin' man — there 
must be some of it in me, after all! 
But the farm is saved; Hay's in jail 
for his conspiracy against Dan — it 
cant be that races are so wicked, after 

"Arrah, me old mither used to say, 
there's a time for ivry thing, " laughed 
Dan. " I 'm thinkin ' this was the time 
for us to take up horse-racin'. And, 
thanks to Nora, dear, it was an honest, 
clane race. Sure 's there's a woman at 
the bottom of ivry good thing ! " . 

Laura's Birthday Party 


Invitations had been issued to the party, 

But mother suddenly was taken ill ; 
There was to be no noise, the doctor ordered, 

And Laura's little world seemed cold and chill. 
Mother saw the saddened childish face. 

And wondered how she could dispel the gloom ; 
When suddenly a bright idea came to her, 

So she called her little daughter to her room. 

She told her when her little friends assembled, 

Instead of fun at home, they all could go, 
In company with sisters Grace and Jessie, 

To a most delightful Moving Picture Show. 
Laura brightened up, and soon the fairies 

Were dancing in her mischievous blue eyes ; 
She declared it was much better than a party, 

And would be just lilie a regular surprise. 

And so it proved to be — no gayer party 

Ever passed within a picture theater's doors ; 
How they laughed and thrilled in turn at each new picture, 

And witli all their might they joined in the applause. 
And when the show was over, they were taken, 

As a finish to the treat, to get ice-cream ; 
Between the mouthfuls they kept up a constant chatter 

About the pictures they had seen upon the screen. 

They voted it a grand theater party. 

And that night, before Laura went to bed. 
She stole quietly into her mother's bedroom. 

And, kissing her good-night, she softly said: 
"Mother, dear, I'm sorry you were ill, 

And I hope you are not feeling very bad. 
But I'm glad I couldn't have a regular party. 

For this was the best birthday I ever had." 

"TY/inkie" Dan had his own pri- 

YY vate opinion of that story liis 
Unele Jolin was forever tell- 
ing him about, "The Ladv of the 

Only once had Winkie Dan ex- 
pressed his unbiased thought about 
the tale, and then "Junker" — which 
was the way he had always got " Unelc 
John" twisted around his tongue 
from the first day lie began to speak 
and to notice tilings — Junker botli 
laughed and crird almost at what he 
had said. Winkie Dan would rather 
a good sight be locked up in a dark 
room with "white things" and go 
without jam for nine million days, 
than cause Junker's face to grow one 
mite sadder than it was already. 

But that time when he, Winkie Dan, 
had hurt Junker by what he had said, 
was ever present in his mind. Jxmker 
had stai'ted in, as usual, to tell some- 
thing about her, when Winkie Dan 
had merely remarked : 

"But, Junker, I'd a good deal 
rather hear about Injuns, or robbers, 
or " 

Then Wiukie Dan saw that he had 

done something to Junker's feelings; 
he stopped abi'uptly, with a hard 
lump, like a glass alley, in his throat. 

"In other words — she's got to be a 
'chestnut,' eh? I dont wonder, 
Winkie Dan; I've told you something 
about her nearly evei-y night since my 
dear sister died, and left you to me. 
I'll not bother my little side-partner 
any more. I'll keep it inside, if it 
burns a hole clean thru inc." 

Winkie Dan was on the point of 
saying something about ottering assist- 
ance with the little fire-engine Junker 
had given him for his sixth birthday, 
but something told him that the re- 
mark was inappi'opriate. "You c'n 
tell me about her, if you want. 
Junker," he had said, shamefacedly. 

But Junker had only smiled and 
looked down and kist Winkie Dan, 
with his eyes awful shiny-like. 

Then it was that Winkie Dan began 
to go about really and truly thinking, 
with an expression on his fair little 
brow just exactly the same as Junker 
always wrinkled on his when he took 
him to the big 'city restaurant and 
studied the bill-of-fare. 




Then it came over "Winkie Dan, for 
the first time, that Junker had always 
gone around with an awful unhappy 
look that got into that part of little 
boys' insides where the sighs come 
from. He had felt the same way, he 
remembered, when his hound pup had 
died and he had thought of the way 
she used to come and lick his hand. It 
was a lump on, or a hole in, one's 
feelings — which, he was not yet pre- 
pared to swear to. But there was 
something wrong with Junker's feel- 
ings, and it wasn 't any wobbly hound 
pup, either. 

Then, sudden- 
ly, it flashed 
across W i n k i e 
Dan's mind that 
possibly — "Now 
dont go an' tell 
anybody what I 
say — yet, " he 
told his only con- 
fidant, Teddy 
Bear— that The 
Lady of the Hills 
had something to 
do with it — nuiy- 

"I'd shoot her 
w i t h a bow 'n- 
arrer, if she done 
anything to 
him!" he vouch- 
safed many times 
during the day. 

He waited, im- 
patiently, until 
Junker should 
come home from his day in the city. 

He found it a most delicate subject 
to broach, when he bad snuggled up 
in Junker's lap before the open fire 
that evening. 

"Well, what can I do for my little 
side-pai'tner tonight?" asked Junker, 
on observing his anxious, inquiring 

"I want you to tell me all over 
again about" — ^Winkie Dan shifted 
uneasily ; so did Junker, but he kept 
silent — "about The Lady of the 

Junker made no immediate reply, 
but just hugged Winkie Dan tight. 


"You're a brick, "Winkie Dan," 
said Junker, at length, tho the latter 
couldn't see the point of his remark. 
"Nothing will make me happier than 
to talk about — her. It's all a fairy 
story, you know. ' ' 

Winkie Dan didn't quite agree, but 
he had special reasons for wanting to 
hear it all again. ' ' Tell me it all over 

Junker cleared away all that thick, 
funny sound that had come in hisvoice, 
and then, looking deep into the smoky 
shadows of the fireplace, he began : 

"Once upon a 
time, tiiere was a 
most beautiful 
and sweet girl. A 
Beggar of a fel- 
low fell in love 
with this beauti- 
f u 1 girl, and 
asked her to 
marry him. She 
said ' Yes, ' and 
the Beggar was 
very happy. 
Then there came 
along a handsome 
chap who made 
love to the sweet 
gii'l, and, finally, 
won her heart. 
Now this chap 
was r e a 1 1 }' a 
Prince in dis- 
guise, and his 
name was Mu- 
sic." Junker 
paused, and 
seemed lost in voiceless thought. 

When Winkie Dan could stand it no 
longer, he asked: "But, then, you 
went around and got the girl, didn't 

" Me ? " said Junker, a little sharply, 
looking at Winkie Dan in a half 
scared way. "You mean the Beg- 
gar chap ! Oh, yes, he went around 
to the girl's little home, but he found 
the sweet girl sitting at the piano, in 
company — heart and soul — with that 
chap, Music. Then she told the Beg- 
gar fellow that she had changed her 
mind, and had decided to go off to 
another land, for she had found 



that she loved the other fellow 

"Junker," burst forth "Winkie 
Dan, wrathfully, "I dont like her 

Junker laid his hand gently on the 
boy's shoulder. "But you would, if 
you knew her." He always said this, 
and Winkie Dan had his doubts. 
"Well, she went off to another land to 

Let's call her Marie. "Well, Marie's 
husband soon began to make her very 
popular in their new land. She won 
the admiration of kings and queens 
thru her Prince Charming, Music. 
Gifts, honors and wealth were show- 
ered upon her." 

"And what became of — of " 

"Oh, he just went his quiet way. 
He, too, had found a treasure to 


study. She said she still loved the 
Beggar — but ' ' 

"She didn't," snapped "Winkie 

"I'm afraid you're right, side- 
partner. Anyway, the poor IBeggar 
fellow loved her with all his heart. He 
left the big city, and went to the 
country. But he couldn't get away 
from " 

"What was her name?" demanded 
Winkie Dan. 

"Oh-h, it makes little difference. 

love." Junker's arm tightened about 
Winkie Dan. "And together he and 
his little treasure lived in their quiet 
valley. On the distant hills lived 
Marie— The Lady of the Hills !" 

"Where is she now?" persisted 
Winkie Dan. 

"There is no note — or future to 
fairy stories, little side-partner," said 
Junker, in a way that reminded 
Winkie Dan painfully of his hound 
pup licking his hand again. 

"Is she still away in that place?" 



"Bless you, no. She is somewhere 
in the big city." 

"The Beggar man's big city?" 

"No doubt," Junker said, uncom- 
fortably, and then abruptly : " I think 
little side-partner better be running 
up to bed. Good-night, Winkie Dan." 

"Good-night, Junker. Thanks." 

Winkie Dan fully decided, as he lay 
for more than an hour tliat night 
thinking it over, to shoot Marie witli 
his bow'n-arrer — 
if he ever found 

He told this to 
both Teddy and 
Miggie the next 
day. Miggie was 
Winkie Dan 's 
nurse. She was a 
good nurse, 
Winkie Dan 
thought, because 
she took cold tea 
from a bottle, 
and let him go 
'most anywhere 
while she slept. 
He could trust 
her with every 
word he said, too. 
Miggie used to 
take Winkie Dan 
down to the little 
park near the 
river, and spend 
the larger part of 
every clear day 

It was about 
the middle of the 
s u m m e r that 

Winkie Dan was asked his name 
by a very beautiful lady dressed 
all in white. The lady smelled just 
too beautiful for words, and, besides, 
she had about the funniest-looking 
thing around her wrist that Winkie 
Dan had ever seen. Miggie had told 
him to come and wake her at once if 
any stranger ever spoke to him, and 
he would probably have done it, had 
it not been that the beautiful lady in 
white, seeing his interest in the 
curious wrist-bag, took it off, and 
placed it in his hand. 


"Winkie Dan," he said, suddenly 
remembering the question that he had 
been asked. 

"What an odd name!" 
There was something about the 
voice of the lady that reminded him 
of some musical instrument he had 
once heard. 

"May I sit down here on the bank 
and talk with you, Winkie Dan?" she 
asked gravely, bending over him. 

"I'll see if 
Miggie 's awake 
first," said he, 
prudently. Win- 
kie Dan could 
never remember 
having had a 
stronger wish for 
anything than to 
open that funnj' 
bag, fast to the 
lady's wrist. 
J\I i g g i e was 

"Gee, but this 
is a funny bag," 
chuckled Winkie 
Dan, a few min- 
utes later. "It's 
nearly worth as 
much as my stone 
blocks that 
Junker gave 

"This was given 
me by a real live 
foreign queen, ' ' 
countered the 
lady, smiling. 

Winkie Dan 
suddenly remem- 
bered something that presents from a 
queen suggested. Unfortunately, he 
had left his bow'n-arrers home this 
day of all days. He drew away, and 
fairly bristled as he asked : 

"Are you The Lady of the Hills — 
an' I aiiit foolin', either?" 

The beautiful lady looked quite 
astounded for a moment, and then she 
replied, very softly: "I dont think I 
am, altho I live on a hill — that's my 
house yondei'." She pointed to a 
splendid place across the river. 
Winkie Dan breathed a sigh of re- 



lief. He didn't want her to be the 
hated Ladj' of the Hills ; she was too 

"I'm glad you're not her," he said, 
emphatical ly. ' ' She 's in a fairy story 
with Junker. She ran away from 
Junker witii a feller named Music, 
and when I eatch her, I'm goin' to 
shoot her with my bow 'n-arrer. " 

"Winkie Dan paid no attention to 
the funny way the woman acted, be- 
cause he i)elieved all women were kind 
of funny, anyway. He might have 
told her more 
about the story, 
for there w a s 
something about 
her soft and sweet 
that he seemed 
to have always 
been looking for, 
and just found. 
He never liked to 
have Miggie hug 
him, but he sort 
of wished that 
this beautiful 
lady would. But 
everything was 
spoiled by Miggie 
suddenly waking 

' ' Miggie, and 
Junker, too, said 
I nnistn 't speak 
to strangers," he 
said, regretfully, 
a she abruptly 
left her. 

There was 
something in the 

look she gave him that made him turn 
several times, thinking slie had called 
him. A few minutes latei' she walked 
away to a large automobile that was 
waiting in the roadway. 

It must have been two weeks later 
that Winkie Dan saw the beautiful 
lady in the park by the river again. 
Without even looking to see if Miggie 
was asleep, he ran straight up to her, 
with less dignity than he ever re- 
membered having shown. 

' ' Have you been looking for me ? ' ' 
he asked, boldly. 

"Yes," she confessed. 


"I have been looking for you," 
said Winkie Dan, and she took his 
hand, and they walked to a cool, 
shady spot on the river's bank. 

"Tell me the story of The Lady of 
the Hills — whom you are going to 
shoot with your bow 'n-arrer. Did 
you bring it with you today, my little 

' ' No, but I can run home and get it 
while Miggie is asleep," he said, half 

She detained him with a hand he 
wished she would 
keep there a long, 
long time, it was 
so sweet to feel. 
Even Junker's 
hand was heavier 
than that. 

Then he sat 
down, and she 
held him gently 
near her, while 
he told her the 
w hole story of 
The Lady of the 
Hills, ile tried 
to put all the 
gruffness in that 
Junker did, and 
added a little 
for himself. He 
felt a queer little 
movement of her 
body by his side 
w h en he ha d 
finished, and 
looked up. The 
beautiful lady 
was crying to 
herself in her handkerchief ! 

"I didn't mean to be so rough when 
I told it. Honest I didn't," said 
AVinkie Dan, taking the beautiful 
lady's hand, and caressing it, while a 
sympathetic distress clutched at his 
own heartstrings in a way that made 
him hold on tight to keep from crying, 

"And you dont feel a bit sorrv for 
The Lady of the Hills?" asked the 
beautiful lady, at length. 

' ' I only feel sorry for Junker. Will 
you cross .your heart, if I tell you 
something ? ' ' 




"Cross my heart," swore the beau- 
tiful lady, solemnly. 

"Well, Junker is the Beggar of that 
fairy story ; he cant fool me." Winkie 
Dan tossed his head the way he had 
seen Miggie do it. ' ' An ' he thinks — " 

"AVinkie! Winkie!" a shrill voice 
was calling. 

"She'll tell Junker that I was 
naughty, if I dont go right away," 
lamented AVinkie Dan, as he ran 

The sun was creeping low in the 
western hills before the beautiful lady 
rose, half wearily, and walked slowly 
back to her waiting ear. 

Miggie took a different route after 
that, passing under the bridge and 
down to the stretch of wharf by the 
very river's edge. Winkie Dan knew 
that Junker had expressly forbidden 
her to go there, but he had lots of fun 
playing among the bobbing rowboats. 
so he said nothing. He always was 
on the lookout for the beautiful lady, 
and would have stolen back up the 
bank if he had seen her in the park. 

Above all things, Winkie Dan 

wanted to confide his adventure of the 
beautiful lady to his side-partner. 
Junker. For hadn't Junker confided 
in him? Winkie Dan would have 
given his whole boxful of mechanical 
toys, and been content to let Santa 
Claus skip him altogether next Christ- 
mas, if Junker and the beautifvil lad.y 
could onl,y meet. Junker was so kind 
and good and lonely. And the beauti- 
ful lady was so sweet and beautiful ; 
and that was what would make you 
laugh — she was so lonely, too. 

Winkie Dan didn't know just how 
to tell it, but he was of the opinion 
that the beautiful lady might take the 
place of The Lad.y of the Hills, 
and so settle this whole matter that 
made Junker unhappy and Winkie 
Dan miserable. 

Then, suddenly, it occurred to 
Winkie Dan how he might broach the 
great compromise — he would tell 
Junker his fairy story ! 

For five days he made up and made 
up, but each time gave up in despair. 
Finally, he decided to tell Junker 
what he had made up. 

Junker was scowling over the even- 





ing paper the way you scowl at the 
cat when she has knocked down a 
fine house of blocks you have just 

"Four weeks' triumphal tour!" 
sniffed Junker, over the article he was 
reading. "The whole country at her 
feet! Oh, did you speak, side-part- 

ner?" he asked, looking over the top 
of the paper at Winkie Dan. 

' ' I was going to tell you a — a fairy 
story," said Winkie Dan, half fear- 

"I'll be a bad audience tonight, 
little Winkie Dan. Let's wait until 
tomorrow night, and I'll promise you 



everything. I'm all upset, little 
shaver. I'm going out for a walk. 

Winkie Dan was alarmed. He 
glanced at the news-sheet belliger- 
ently. He sprang towards it with a 
cry. There was a large picture printed 
that looked ever so much like his 
beautiful lady. He went up to bed 
with the beginnings of a great plan 
forming in his puzzled brain. He was 

It was about noon the next day that 

before his dobr. A pale-faced servant 
handed him a note the clvatiffenr had 
brought. He read it: 

You have probably heard terrible re- 
ports about precious Winkie Da-i. He 
has been rescued from the river. He is 
practically well and safe with his friend. 
Take the car and come at once. 

"My God!" was all that passed 
Junker's trembling lips. 

It was a drive of about four miles 
across the nearest bridge. The chauf- 


one of the rivermen woke the rum- 
soaked Miggie to tell her that the last 
he had seen of her kid he was playing 
in one of the boats. Now, the boat and 
the kid were both missing. He was 
nowhere to be seen on the surface of 
the water. The tide was fast going 
out ; a squally wind had sprung up. A 
bend in the river hid the worst part 
of it from sight. Junker, or John 
Sterne, her charge's uncle, was due 
home on a train that ari'ived in less 
than an hour ! 

Miggie fled to parts unknown. 

When John Sterne arrived home, 
he found a big touring-car drawn up 

feur made it in something like seven 
minutes. A hush hung over the great 
country-house as he was admitted by a 

"This way, sir." 

With dread, Junker followed him 
up the broad stairs. The butler 
paused befoi-e the door of a room, 
softly opened it, and respectfully 
stood one side, closing it again when 
Junker had entered. He was about to 
rush up to the great bed, when he 
saw, in the subdued light, the form of 
a woman bending over it. with her 
arms around his little side-partner, 
Winkie Dan. 



There was something about it all 
that made him tremble like a flame in 
the wind. Then the child saw him, 
and gave a cry of delight. 

"Oh, it's Junker! It's Junker!" 

The woman sprang up with a 
little shudder, and turned, and faced 

In that moment, the boy was for- 
gotten. Neither moved until his little 
.voice piped up: "Junker, this is the 
beautiful lady of my fairy tale. I 

wanted you to take her instead of that 
old Lady of the Hills!" 

Then it was that she moved for- 
ward, and gently took his hands in 

' ' I have come back, ' ' she whispered. 
"Seven lonely years have I spent in 

"Marie!" was all he said, folding 
her tightly to his hungry breast. 

Winkie Dan, the author of the 
pretty tale, had gone fast asleep. 

The Picture Show 

(Age 14 years) 

Oh, what is the thing whose praises all sing? 

Where. every one can go ; 
What is it brings joy to every girl and boy? 

Why, tlie picture show ! 
That's where I have learnt all my geography ; 
That's where all my favorite players I see. 
Oh, there's no other place where I'd rather be, 

Thau the picture show. 

What is it brings joy to every girl and boy? 

A place we all well know ; 
Where you'll have a good time for a nickel or dime, 

Why. the picture show ! 
What is it whose memories none can erase? 
Which, sooner than you think, will be the one place 
Which will be patronized by the whole human race. 

Yes, the picture show. 


HAD not a blanket of fog hung over 
the island of Niihavi, these 
events would never have hap- 
pened. If the ship's carpenter had not 
been fitting a new combing to a life- 
boat, dropping his tools when the Per- 
dita shoved her nose on the reef, after- 
events would have probably come out 
very diiferently. But if the Rev. 
John Granger, a retiring missionaiy, 
coming home from China, had not 
been on board, there would be abso- 
lutely no after-story to tell. 

The trade-winds from the northeast 
had cooled the steamer's decks all the 
way across from Hongkong, but, as 
she neared Hawaii, they suddenly 
died down, and a hot, damp wind 
came up from the southwest, smelling 
of the equator. 

Presently, close off Kaula, the fog 
set in, and the air became thick and 
breathless; the Pcrdita slowed down 
to half speed, and nosed along 
blindly, grunting her whistle like a 
pig in a sack. 

Second Officer Edward Willard 
was shaving his chin by the light 
of a bracket-lamp when the Perdita 
struck — it was as if something big 


had risen out of the Pacific and 
slapped the steamer a resounding 
buffet, the way she quivered and 
groaned — and, almost at the same 
time, pandemonium broke loose. 

Willard had barely run to his sta- 
tion, in the stern, when the mob from 
the stoke-hole burst on deck, and, 
cursing and howling, started to rush 
the boats. 

It was a man's work, then, holding 
them back, with a cracked skull or 
two, until the passengers were lowered 
over the rail. As each boat "was filled, 
it rowed off southward, for a few 
strokes, then was swallowed in the 

The sea had risen to the Perdita' s 
counter when Willard, with the five 
remaining members of her crew, 
prepared to lower her last boat — a 
little one off the second cabin smoking- 
room. They were tumbling in — not 
the pick of the crew, the officer noticed 
— when a girl appeared on deck, lead- 
ing an old man in the black clothes of 
a clergyman. He was very feeble, 
and controlled his feet with the 
utmost difficulty. 

Willard sprang to their side — a 



fathom below, the boat's crew were 
muttering at his delay — and lifted the 
invalid over the rail. 

"Below there!" he ordered; "lend 
a hand," and the clergyman was 
eased into the boat. The girl nimbly 
followed, then Willard, and soon they 
were putting off, steering west, with a 
last backward look at the sinking 

They had been out in the fog some 

disclosed an ugly head of high rock 
within a ship's length of them. 

Willard skirted its base, and steered 
for the lower lying coast beyond. 

"With the fog still lifting, and'the 
Sim coming thru against the foliage 
of hills back of the coast, the crew put 
the lagging boat thru the water at a 
smart pace, and soon had opened up 
a bit of coral beach. 

Here they beached her, and every 


three hours, with four men at the oars, 
and the old man shivering, even in his 
heavy coat, when Willard distinctly 
heard the slap of the surf against 

He leaned forward, as if trying to 
cut thru the gray wall of the sea. "A 
little to starboard — steady there !" 

Tlie boat kept on — an interminable 
time — until the sounds became plain 
to all. 

"I'm thinking, sir," said one of the 
men, " it 's Niihau. ' ' 

As he spoke, the fog lifted, and 

one got out and stretched, as if at the 
end of a nightmare journey. 

While the girl set her companion 
upon the beach, where he sat humped 
up and disconsolate, Willard ordered 
their little store of provisions brought 
ashore, and made a careful inventory 
of them. For, he thought, in his 
methodical way, this might be the 
coast of Niihau, inhospitable at best, 
or, again, it might not be. 

The crew, one of them carrying a 
wicker demijohn, started on a tum- 
bling walk down the beach. 



"Here, j'ou!" sang out Willard. 
"What have you got there?" 

The man with the demijohn stopped, 
and faced about his ugly, blue mug. 
"Willard beckoned for him to return, 
and, on his obeying, ordered him to 
leave his burden on the beach. The 
man reluctantly obe.yed — it was evi- 
dently rum filched from the ship's 
stores, in the scramble for the boats 
— and turned back to join his com- 

Willard glanced at the demijohn. 

said in a low voice, glancing toward 
the old man. 

"Danger? None," he assured her, 
smiling, "save what we may make for 
ourselves. To tell you the truth," he 
added, lowering his voice, "I dont 
half like the looks of the men in the 
boat's crew that we brought with us." 

"But they are under your com- 
mand." She said this as if he were 
a species of monarch. 

"True," he answered, "but Jack 
ashore is diiferent from Jack on ship- 


and was tempted to smash it, then 
and there, and have done with it. But 
it Avas a valuable store, in case of 
sudden sickness, and he added it to 
his other supplies. 

All this time the girl, sitting on 
the beach, had been eyeing him 
boldly, and he suddenly thought of 

"I dont know where we are, miss," 
he said, lifting his cap. "and wont 
know until the men come back. At a 
guess, I should say we were on the 
almost uninhabited island of Niihau. ' ' 

"Then there is no danger?" she 

board — especially after a wreck the 
worst part of him seems to crop oiit. ' ' 

"Have you noticed anything wrong 
with them?" she asked, 

"Only little things — but T know 
the reputation of Hongkong dock- 
rats and beach-combers, such as these. 
It's a fist between the eyes first, and 
after that love and respect," 

He turned away, to busy himself 
with the stores; then, awkwardly, 
approached lier again. 

"Would your father care for a 
little stimulant?" he asked, with an 
eye on the demijohn. 



"Oh, no, thanks," she spoke up 
quickly; "Mr. Granger would never 
think of taking any." 

There were several tins of soup in 
the stores, and Willard set about 
prying off the covers, and in gathering 
driftwood for a fire. 

Presently the girl joined him. 
"Cant I be of use?" she asked, and, 
for the first time, Willard noticed 
that she was good-looking, with a 
round, even chin and wide-set, childish 

"Yes," he admitted; "if there's 
anything more to cooking than mak- 
ing a fire, I'll gladly take further 
commands from you. ' ' 

The supper was well under way 
when the boat's crew returned, and 
Willard assigned them a place on the 
beach, with one of them, the man with 
the blue chin, to wait on the others. 

They ate noisily and with relish, 
with an eye ever on the demijohn. 

After the meal, Willard questioned 
them, at length, on the results of their 
exploring trip, but not one of them 
could say, definitely, whether it was 
an island or not. In fact, they 
admitted they had not left the beach. 

Willard figured that he had at least 
two hours before sunset to climb the 
range of hills back of the beach, so, 
ordering the men to explore the coast 
to the north of the head, he set out 

Like most sailors, he was a poor 
climber up the rocky, lava-covered 
slope, and it was almost dusk before 
he reached the summit. What he saw 
to the east was beautiful: a rare 
tropic sun-bath of orange and red 
streaking the purple sea, but it con- 
vinced him that they were upon a 
small island some distance from the 
true coast of Niihau. 

As he clambered down the slope, 
now and then he caught a glimpse of 
the roaring fire on the beach, and, as 
he drew nearer, the wind blew the 
sound of boisterous voices to him. 
There was trouble of some kind ahead 
for him. 

Willard broke thru the fringe of 
candle-nut trees, and started on a run 
down the beach. The boat's crew had 

ceased singing and shouting, and 
were standing in a little group by the 
fire. Quite near them, with the flames 
playing shadows over her, stood the 
girl passenger. Her half crouch sug- 
gested the action of a big cat at bay. 

The second officer drew his revolver, 
and appeared suddenly out of the 
night. The firelight showed up the 
faces of the men plainly: that they 
had been drinking hard was evident. 

' ' Draw off, ' ' Willard ordered, ' ' and 
build a fire for yourselves farther 
down the beach. I '11 have no drunken 
trouble-makers in this camp." 

Seeing the shining thing in his 
hand, they silently obeyed, and, a 
half-hour later, a second fire started 
into glowing life on the sands. 

Willard lay on his back some few 
yards from his charges, and stared up 
into the vault of blackness above him. 
At last, a kind of troubled sleep came 
over him — a sleep in which visions of 
sinking steamers, countless demijohns 
floating on the sea, and a pair of 
sparkling, wide-set eyes were mixed 
in chaotic confusion. 

He was dreaming that these eyes 
were staring at him, like pools of 
reproach, when a light hand upon his 
shoulder caused him to sit up and to 
look at these creatures of his dream. 

"Mr. Willard," said the girl, 
"something dreadful has happened 
during the night. " 

He sprang to his feet, looked about 
him, and needed no further words. 
The store of provisions was gone, the 
boat was gone; no signs of life ap- 
peared on the beach. Only an empty 
demijohn rolled, lazily, in the shallow, 
sparkling water. The boat's crew had 
evidently taken a scant French leave 
during the hours of his vivid dream. 

"Well," said the officer, after a 
few minutes of slack-jawed gazing, 
"they're gone, kit and boodle. We 
cant make any worse start than Adam 
did, anyway." Then, suddenly re- 
membering that the girl was very 
much in the position of Eve, he 
stopped, and blushed fiery red under 
his sea tan. 

"There's breakfast to be thought 
of," he resumed, "and I'm going 



back of the beach to knock down some 

When he returned, with an armful 
of the tough-shelled nuts, the girl had 
rigged a sort of beach-chair for the 
old clergyman, against which he 
rested easily. Willard noticed one 
other contrivance that made him 
wonder at her ingenuity. It was a 
silk signal flag, tied neatly to a long 
pole, but, by its flounce, it would have 
been recognized 
as the offspring j^gT- 
of a brown silk ~ 
petticoat by al- 
most any one but 
an unmarried 
seafaring man. 

After a break- 
fast on the nuts, 
w h i c h , w li e n 
f r e s h plucked, 
are as tender as 
porridge, W i 1 1- 
ard asked per- 
mission 1 liglit 
his pipe. He 
might as well tell 
them the worst, 
he thought, and 
be done with it: 
that they were 
a good twenty 
miles from the 
nearest inhal)ited 
island, and o u t 
of the regular 
path of vessels. 

They took the 
news cooler than 
he t h o u g h t — 
t li e r e was no 
fright, nor com- 
plaint, from the 

girl. It was only the old clergyman 
who groaned and looked feebler than 
usual, if possible. 

Then the girl told him that her 
name was Flora Cavendish, and that 
her guardian, the Rev. Mr. Granger, 
was taking her to San Francisco for 
the iirst time in her life. 

A week passed on the island, but 
little of consequence happened, except 
that "Willard dug up a patch of kalo 
bushes, and instructed Flora how to 


bruise and bake the roots into a flour 
— the poi of all righteous Hawaiians. 
Then, too, the clergyman grew feebler 
day by day, just a natural petering 
out, and watched their signalling 
from the head, with an interest of 

■One day, as the sun turned their 
little bay into molten silver, and the 
coral sand around them sparkled with 
the luster of pearls, he called them to 
his side, and told 
• them that he did 
not expect to sur- 
vive the night. 
One thing lay on 
his mind, almost 
greater than the 
contemplation of 
his call to the be- 
yond : it was that 
he might have the 
satisfaction of 
uniting the m , 
then and there. 

Such a thing 
Edward Willard 
had conjectured 
in his dreams 
only, and he 
could see it came 
as a sudden shock 
to the gii'l. But 
the old mission- 
ary held them, 
with his filming 
eyes, and warned 
t h e m that his 
duty lay clear 
and shining be- 
fore him. 

It is only in 
penny novels that 
marriage is pro- 
posed so suddenly, especially on a 
strip of uninhabited island in mid- 
ocean, so it is natural that the prin- 
cipals should have shown signs of 
reluctance and embarrassment. 

But the scarcely lingering old man 
was insistent: a vision had come to 
him that they two should spend the 
remainder of their days on the island, 
and he, who had had his Christian 
will with so many stony-eyed Orien- 
tals, succeeded in joining their hands, 



if not their hearts, together ou the 
sands in front of liim. 

Having had his will, some time 
later in the day he looked squarely 
into the setting sun, told Flora to 
pluck out his scanty purse, murmured 
a blessing, and, folding his hands 
tightly, passed away, quickly, in the 
invisible boat that plies wherever a 
soul beckons from the shore. 

From then on, for several days, 
w here harmonj^ 
and friendliness 
had ruled before 
in the little camp 
of three, a species 
of frigid formal- 
ity hung over the 
open-air home of 
the two survivors. 
As a matter of 
fact, both these 
normal young 
people thought 
the other had 
been sacrificed to 
the whim of the 
late Mr. Grangor, 
and, while Flora 
took to long walks 
on the beach and 
among the rocks, 
Edward d e v e 1- 
oped strong do- 
mestic tendencies, 
and set to work 
keeping a diary. 
He soon tired of 
this child's play, 
however, and, one 
day, throwing 
down his note- 
book, set out 

upon a trip of exploration down the 

AVhile this model of domesticity 
was absent, Flora came back to the 
little patch of velvety sand, misnamed 
home, and spied his diary, thrown 
carelessly upon the beach. She picked 
it up, and, with pardonable curiosity, 
ran thru its pages. It contained a 
dry and unromantie record of the set 
of the winds, tides, and a seaman's 
carefulness for dates. The passage 
that caused her to groan miserably, 


however, and to cast the book l)aek 
on the beach, ran something like 
this: "Thursday, April 28th. Wind 
N.N.E., back in the trades. Minister 
is dying. He insists that I should 
marry Plora, this little girl. If- 1 ever 
see you again, Evelyn, remember that 

I loved you " 

At almost the same time that this 
domestic tragedy was being acted, 
Edward ran down the beach to some 
rocks on the wa- 
ter's edge with 
a hoarse shout 
of discovery. A 
native boat, but 
slightly damaged, 
lay wedged in the 
grip of two 
b u 1 d e r s. He 
looked it over, 
almost tenderly, 
with a lump ris- 
ing in his throat, 
and realized that, 
with a little re- 
pairing, it woiild 
serve to escape 
with, from the 
island. What a 
thing, he thought, 
feeling the little 
boat's broken 
ribs, that the 
Perdita's carpen- 
ter had left h i s 
tools in the life- 
boat, and that the 
boat 's crew had 
east them on the 
beach. In a day 
or two at most — 
He broke into a mellow bass care-free 

Before the stars had paled the next 
morning, he shook himself awake, 
and was off down the beach, carrying 
his tools. What a stupendous surprise 
he had in store for his wife, when he 
should eome, rowing the little boat up 
to their front door, so to speak. 
Visions of a smooth, swift passage to 
Niihau, a two days' trip to Honolulu, 
and then San Francisco, shot thru his 
brain. It was glorious ! 



He stfipped himself down to his 
shii't, and scst to work, fcverislily, on 
tlie damaged boat, whieh, to him, 
looked as fine as a Pacific liner, in the 
rising sun. 

It must have been about noon, with 

nod, and soon he was sleeping as only 
a man in tlie open can, soundly and 

Again came dreams, or were they 
half reality ? For, he thought, a trim 
young girl, with wide, hazel eyes. 


the sun riding hot overhead and 
blistering his naked feet on the beach, 
that he knocked off from his work, 
and ate a giant's portion of gummy 
poi and coeoanut meat. Then, some- 
thing in the monotonous sound of the 
slap of the sea against the head, and 
the cries of sea-birds, caused him to ' 

came softly to his side, and looked 
long and brokenly at him. A sound 
of bitter weeping mingled with the 
slap of the sea, but he could not raise 
an arm, to put it about her and to 
check the sobs. 

Presently he awoke, with a start, 
rubbed the uneasy vision out of his 



eyes, and set to work again. Had he 
been less of a sailor, and of a more 
observing nature, he might have taken 
notice of the little footprints in the 
sand by his side, which the rising tide 
slowly obliterated. 

As the sun was nnblusliingly pre- 
paring its bed in the west, he pushed 
the little boat into the sea, aind rowed, 
with lusty, impatient strokes, toward 
their camp in the sand-carpeted bay. 

As he neared 
the spot, Flora 
was not in sight, 
l)ut some of her 
things strewn 
around told h i m 
that she w a s not 
far away. 

The first thing 
he notice d was 
her jacket, then 
her saucy little 
chip straw hat — 
then her shoes. 
Strange; was she 
bathing at this 
hour of the day 1 

But s h e vv a s 
nowhere in sight. 
A panic seized 
upon him, and he 
ran up the beach, 
calling her, fran- 
tically, by name. 
Only the waving 
palms gave back 
a mocking echo. 

In the semi- 
darkness, he ex- 
plored the treach- 
erous rocks of 
the head. He 

thought even of setting out to circle 
the island, but the last blood-red 
ray of the sun, vanishing suddenly 
from the sea, warned him of its 

For two days, and two nights, he 
waited, sleepless and without food, on 
the beach ; then he seemed to realize 
that she had passed awa.v from him, 
probal)ly into tlie .sea, and he put out, 
rowing southeast, in a dazed, miser- 
able sort of way. Two days afterward 
he reached Niihau, without mishap, 


qnd from Honolulu took a steamer for 
San Francisco. 

It is hard to fathom why Flora did 
such a desperate, foolhardy tiling as 
to flee from the man that she reall.v 
loved, but, as she leaned over his 
sleeping body in the little boat on the 
beach, she must have felt that, 
with rescue near, she stood between 
Willard and the girl he loved back in 
the States. He 
had done a heroic 
thing in marry- 
ing her, out of a 
sense of honor, 
and, suddenly, 
she thought that 
her sacrifice 
should measure 
up to his. She 
determined, as by 
inspiration, to 
l)lace all her 
i-lothing, but 
\\ hat was abso- 
lutely necessary, 
on the beach — it 
was a sure token 
f her death b y 
drowning — and 
to flee deep in- 
land into the 
woods. He would 
be free to work 
out liis own des- 
tiny, then. 

For two nights 
she came down to 
the fringe of 
palms, and 
watched him sit- 
ting, hunched up, 
by the fire. Now and then, he de- 
jectedb' put fresh wood on it, but, tho 
the sobs swelled and strangled in her 
breast, she stiick bravely to her 
resolve, and did not warn him of her 

A week later she saw an incoming, 
native schooner off the head, and 
promptly signalled it. The schooner's 
people saw her, and sent a boat ashore. 
By paying out half of her scanty 
store of money, they agreed to take 
her direct to Honolulu. She arrived 



in time barely to miss the steamer on 
which Willard had sailed. Two 
weeks later, she booked a passage, 
under an assumed name, for San 

The years passed by — two of them 
— in which Flora became a milliner's 
assistant in a smart shop on ilarket 
Street. Everybody liked the pretty 
little girl, who dressed always in the 
severe black of 
mourning; it is 
even r u m o r e d 
that she sternly 
rebuked the at- 
tentions of a 
fond maiinna's 
only darling son, 
and that she 
opened his eyes, 
wide, upon the 
first thing that 
had ever been 
refused him — but 
that is a different 

She lived, fru- 
gally, in a com- 
pact, sunlit room, 
with a canary, 
and was in a fair 
way of becoming 
an old maid, or, 
rather, a con- 
tented grass- 
witlow, if such a 
thing is possil)le. 

In the mean- 
time, w h e n his 
siiip was in, Ed- 
ward Willard, a 
Simon-pure wid- 
ower, dwelt with 

his sister, Miss Evelyn Willard, in a 
snug little cottage, not three squares 
away. There! my secret is out, and 
Edward is not a villainous bigamist 
at heart, but only a simple, home- 
loving seafarer, without a wife to 
bless him. It was said of him that he 
was good-natured, very shy with girls, 
and that, curiously, he never left his 
cabin when his steamer passed the 
islet, Kaula. 


On his return from his last trip, he 
had stopped at a milliner's, and 
ordered a stunning hat sent home, as 
a surprise for Evelyn. To show that 
the Fates were unkind to him, he must 
have missed Flora by inches, for she 
had just stepped out. 

But he never knew, and, back at 

home, dozed the afternoon away in a 

steamer chair. Tlie slap of the sea 

against rocks, and wide, haunted eyes, 

always came close 

to him then. 

He did not 
hear the bell 
ring, nor a girl 
in black enter, 
with a 1)0X as big 
as a trunk. 

E v e 1 y n met 
her, finger on lip. 
• ' Ss-sh ! " she 
whispered ; ' ' d o 
not wake up 

Flora, for it 
was slie, glanced 
toward t ii e 
sleeper in the 
s t e a m e r chair. 
Something about 
liis liigness, and 
the sprawl of his 
legs, looked fa- 
miliar, a n d her 
eyes traveled up- 
w a r d to the 
1) r o n z e-bearded 

She gave a little 
cry, reeled, and 
dropped the hat- 
box with a thud. 
Edward slowly 
opened his eyes — 
and saw his sister, with her arms 
supporting a trim figure in black. 

A pair of flashing, hazel eyes — not 
dream eyes this time — met his. 

"Evelyn, sister," he called, ex- 
citedly, "it is she — my wife!" 

He fully expected to have Evelyn 
say, with a hand on his shoulder: 
"You are dreaming again, Edward." 
but, instead, she led the girl in black 
gently toward him. 

The Regeneration of 
Worthless Dan 



BLACK Pabeb, horse-thief, lay for- 
ward in his saddle, and grimly 
swung his head to survey the 
paths which led from the forks in the 
trail. His eyes were glinty and near- 
closed against the bite of the shrill 
wind, his lips had formed themselves 
into a straight line of aggressive 
hatred. One arm hung useless. 
Frozen blood was on his sleeve. 

"No; I'm not going any farther!" 
he burst out, at last. "Do what you 
please, Sam — go on or come back. I 
dont care — if you want to act yellow 
about it! Hear me?" 

There was an ejaculation from 
behind. The implication of Black 
Faber was not pleasing. But that 
person did not seem to hear. His eyes 
had suddenly opened, and he was 
looking far down to the trail, to where 
a traveling form showed on horseback. 
His jaw shot forward. He grinned, 

' ' After the sheriff, eh ? " he growled. 
"Well, when I get thru, there'll be 
something to need a sheriff for ! Sam 
Stern ! " he commanded, as he wheeled 
his horse, and faced his companion, 
"are you coming back or not? Are 
you going to let a pard get winged, 
and then not help him? Are you — 

Sam Stern, tall, angular, weak- 
faced, vacillated. 

"Who's that down the trail?" he 
asked, in variance to the other's ques- 
tion. Black Faber frowned. 

"Allison's wife," was his crisp 
answer. ' ' She 's going after the sheriff 
to inform him that two very re- 
spectable hoss-rustlers are needing 
lynching, and that one of 'em's 


winged, likewise her husband. That's 
why I'm going back, Sam Stem!" he 
muttered. "Allison winged me, and 
I 'm going to finish him for it ! " 

"Finish him — why, he's got it, too; 
saw his left arm drop as you shot, 
Blackie. What do you want to act 
pizen like this for? Cant you " 

"Coming — or going to show your 
yellow streak?" Black Faber 's voice 
was as cutting and cold as the wind 
which swept up from the canyon. He 
spurred his cayuse. He was gone. 

An hour later, watching, in the 
growing dusk, the form of Black 
Faber, as that individual of crime and 
hatred faded into the shadows, Sam 
Stern crept forward toward the ranch- 
house of Jim Allison. He had seen 
the sneaking approach of his fellow 
"rustler." He had heard the shot, 
the cry, the f^ing thud of the body — 
he had kno^^ that the revengeful 
nature of Faher had been satisfied. 
One glance thru the window, and he 
discerned the lifeless form of Allison 
on the floor. Another glance — and 
Sam Stern turned pale. 

"The pore little son-of-a-gun ! " he 
broke forth, and hurried for the 
door ; "the pore little son-of-a-gun ! " 

For there had showed, beside the 
form of the dead man on the floor, 
the tiny figure of a creeping baby — 
a baby which crooned and wondered, 
and touched the still face of its father 
with non-understanding hands; a 
baby who might suffer and hunger 
and cry in vain for food in the long 
hours that would intervene before 
Mrs. Allison, who had left after the 
first skirmish between the ranchman 
and the horse-rustlers, might return 



with aid. Sam Stern felt that he 
trembled a bit. He laughed to him- 
self in an awkward way — and then 
his face grew grim. In the gray of 
dusk, the snow was beginning to fly , 
a bit. The air was growing colder — 
the wind had more of a bite to it than 
ever. It is not so brave to kill a babv 

mured again, as he mounted and 
swung his horse's head against the 
growing blizzard. "We've got a 
tough trip home, and Lord knows 
what I '11 do with you when I get you 
there, but I 'm going to make the try. 
Your maw aint going to be here for a 
long, longtime — not in this blow-up!" 


by suffering and hunger as it is to kill 
a man with a bullet. Sam Stern hesi- 
tated but a moment more; then, 
swinging open the door of the ranch- 
house, witli clumsy, trembling hands 
he lifted the baby into his arms, and 
Avrapped it well against the cold with- 
out. Then he hurried for his horse. 
' ' Pore little son-of-a-gun ! " he mur- 

But the matter of what was to be 
done with the child was settled for 
Sam Stern by a greater power, when, 
after hours of battling against sleet 
and snow and whipping, shrieking 
winds, he reached his lean-to, far above 
the canyon. Cramped, with aeliing 
limbs, and a head which throbbed 
from the bitter cold, he thumped his 



way into the little one-rooined house, 
lie laid tlie human bundle he had 
striven to protect on the bunk; he 
pulled aside the coverings — then his 
face went white. 

"Pore little son-of-a-gun !" he mur- 
mured, with awlnvard sympathy; 
"pore little kid!" 

And far away down in the valley, a 
woman, still weak 
and fatigue-laden 
from her wild trip 
for aid, reeled as 
the sheriff and 
physician, who 
bent over her hus- 
band's body, told 
of his fate — reeled 
in the realization 
that her husband 
w as dead, and 
that her baby was 
gone, she knew 
not where. Per- 
liaps, could she 
have seen a tin\ 
mound o f frozen 
clods, which later 
showed, far up in 
the hills, slie 
might have known 
— but the mound 
was miles away, 
and S a m Stern, 
weak-willed tho he 
was, h a il gone, 
with a vacillating 
determination i n 
his mind to leave 
horse-rustling be- 
hind, forever. 
can last long some- 
times. With Sam 
Stern it lasted 

nearly eighteen years. The old game 
of horse-rustling, where bullets and 
lynching parties went hand in hand, 
had resolved itself into the more re- 
spectable business of horse-trading. 
Business was growing, too. There had 
come the time when help was needed. 
And it was at that moment that Sam 
Stern, horse-thief of the past, had 
met Worthless Dan. 

"Kid. all that's the matter with 


you," Sam had said, as he bought the 
half-starved l)oy the food and drink 
he had needed, and for which he had 
begged, "is that you aint got balance. 
You mean well enough, all right, but 
you dont know how to handle your- 
self. Suppose you come with me, and 
let me make something wortli while 
out of you. What do you say ?" 

And Dan Ber- 
tram, a wanderer 
at eighteen, penni- 
less, u n li a p p y , 
driftwood on the 
sea of life, looked 
up liappily. 

• ' What do I 
say?" lie asked, 
'■'riianks — that's 
what— tlianks!" 

A n d t li u s it 
was that Worth- 
less Dan — they 
knew him by tliat 
name around the 
liorse-yards — b e- 
i-ame the protege 
of Sam Stern. 
'I'oirother they 
wiiiidered from 
city to city; to- 
gctlier they visited 
farm after farm, 
a n d ranch after 
ranch in search of 
horses. Worthless 
Dan's clothing 
was lu'tler. There 
was l)eginning to 
be a better color 
his cheeks — 




but there was 
something the eyes 

"If I could just 
a home." he said one day, as 
approached a farmhouse, "a 
place like that to live in, maybe things 
'd be different. I aint bad, honest, 
Mr. Stem. Things have just been 
against me, that's all!" 

Stern did not answer. He was 
looking at the woman who stood on the 
veranda of the house, and a queer 
expression had come into his eyes. 
Some way, his voice had taken on a 



queer tone. He did not push his 
trading as usual. He noticed that the 
woman looked often at Dan, and that 
her eyes seemed to carry something of 
sj'mpathy in them. Quicklj' he turned 
to the boy, as they left the place. 

"What did that woman say to 
you ? " he asked, shortly. 
' ' Nothing much — ^\vhy ? ' ' 
' ' What was she talking about ? ' ' 
"Something about her baby," was 
the answer. "It seemed she lost a 
little boy about eighteen years ago, 

told the story of the mountain fight 
of j'ears before, of the attempt to save 
the child's life, of its death thru 
exposure, of the burial in the high 
hills, and of the saving of the little 
brooch as a memory. There was some- 
thing of cunning in Sam Stern's face 
as he told the story. It seemed that 
the memory of other days was re- 
awakening old desires within him. 
There was the racing for money — and 
money which came easier and quicker 
than by horse-stealing. He reached 


and that he'd been about my age if 
he had lived, or hadn't been kid- 
napped, or something of the kind. I 
didn't pay much attention to it " 

"I knew it!" Stern's voice had 
broken in. "I thought I remembered 
that name!" 

Hastily he led the way to a cow- 
stable, and pulled a glittering some- 
thing from a pocket. 

"See that brooch?" he answered. 
' ' You 've been wanting a home. Here 's 
your chance to get it. Now listen !" 

And, as he passed the tiny brooch 
before the eyes of Worthless Dan, he 

forward, and grasped Dan by the 

"Take this brooch," he ordered; 
' ' tell your story. She '11 believe you — 
she'll think you're her son, see? 
You'll have a good home. All I'll ask 
is that you'll help me out on a little 
deal, see? That's all, just a little 
deal. I'll come back in a month. 
You'll have the lay of the land by that 
time — you understand?" 

Something had turned awry in the 
mind of Sam Stern. The old feeling 
of generosity and kindliness, which 
had caused him to make the fight 



against the blizzard for a baby's life, 
seemed to have disappeared. Like a 
Pagin Avith an Oliver Twist, he urged 
Dan forward. The boy followed his 
directions. Mrs. Allison, old, lonely, 
her heart ei-ying out for the child who 
had disappeared, opened her arras, 
and received the wanderer as her own 
flesh and blood. 

And so, life for Dan Bertram 
changed from that of a gypsy exist- 
ence to a happy life — ^tlie like of 
wliich he never had known before. 

arms of Mrs. Allison were about the 
form of the boy she believed to be her 
son. "I just " 

"And I thought I had forgotten 
how to live," the woman answered. 

Then came silence, while the boy 
and the woman sat before the fire, 
watching the dancing flames, the 
glowing coals, the dropping ashes. 
The big clock on the mantel boomed 
out the hours. At last Mrs. Allison 
arose, kist the brow of the boy beside 
her, and left the room. 


Here was home, here was happiness. 
And more than that, here was the 
something he had wished for all his 
life, here was the lone something he 
had longed for and craved — mother- 
love! To Mrs. Allison, widow, Dan 
Bertram was a son — a son who had 
disappeared years ago, who had come 
back, and who must be made to feel 
all the happiness of stored-up love 
and eherishment. Life was good in 
that home — life was happy. 

"I never knew what it was to live 
before," Dan said, one night. They 
were standing before the fire. The 

' ' Good-night ! ' ' she said, softly. 

' ' Good-night ! ' ' answered Dan. He 
was staring ahead. His thoughts were 
surging with the realization that this 
life he was leading was not a truthful 
one, that he was playing a game of 
deception, and that, worst of all, he 
was playing it against a woman. 

Long he sat there — then started. 
There had come the sound of a twist- 
ing door-lock. Again it came — again. 
Dan Bertram whirled, to come face to 
face with Sam Stern. The house- 
breaker held up a hand for silence. 

"Quick!" he said, "is she asleep?" 




Dan Bertram recoiled a bit. 

"I dont understand yon," 
answered. "What " 

"You know what I want!" came 
the voice of Sam Stern, and the tone 
was gruflt". "You know what I put 
you in here for. You've gotten the 

what you put me here for, was it? 
You didn't put me here to give me a 
home, then — but just to act as a tool 
for you ; to help you in a game of rob- 
bery! Well, I wont help you, see? 
Get out of here — out of here !" 

His clutching fingers met the other 


combination of the safe by this time, 
and I want it. It's time for you to 
be moving on. We've got to have 
money — see?" 

For a moment they glared at each 
other. Then, with an inarticulate cry 
of anger, Dan Bertram leaped for- 
ward, straight at the throat of the 
other man. 

"Thief!" he cried out. "That's 

man's throat. Together, breast against 
breast, glaring eyes stai-ing into glar- 
ing eyes, they struggled about the 
room, over chairs, bumping against 
furniture, crashing against the walls. 
Now and then Sam Stern cursed. 
More often he strained the muscles of 
his neck, that the tense fingers of Dan 
Bertram might not choke him. Again 
— again — again they struggled about 



the room. Then, a wild cry, one final 
wrench of the form of Sam Stern, the 
slamming of a door, and he was gone. 
Dan Bertram, savior of what money 
Mrs. Allison possessed, turned, and 
looked into the face of the woman. 

"Well," he said, and his voice was 
slow and strange, ' ' I guess you under- 

lielp him in a game of robbery if he 
gave me the home here. But — well, 
I guess 1 'predated the home too 
much." He crossed the room. He 
reached for his coat and hat. "If 
you'll let me get what few little things 
I have here, I'll come and get them 
tomorrow, Mi's. Allison." His head 


stand now — you see what I was put 
here for." 

"Put here for?" queried Mrs. Alli- 
son, still reeling from the excitement 
of the events which had passed. 
"Then " 

' ' I am not your son. ' ' The voice of 
Dan Bertram sank low. "I am no 
relation to you. Stern had the brooch. 
He thought I might be persuaded to 

was bowed. ' ' I 've loved the home I 've 
had here — I used to fool myself into 
the belief that I really was your son, 
and that I'd amoiint to something 
some of these days. Biit I dont guess 
that's possible. I've always been 
Worthless Dan — I guess I always will 
be. ' 

He turned the knob of the door. He 
paused for just one more look about 



the place — at the books he loved, at 
the fireplace, at the face of the woman 
who had been so kind to him. And 
there, there instead of the anger he 
had expected to see, there instead of 
the frown, there were tears and the 
smile that means forgiveness. Her 
arms were outstretched. She had 

fought her battle, and had won it. 
"You have made yourself a son to ■%■ 
me, Dan, " she said, simply. A broken - 
sob broke from the boy's throat. A 
moment more, and he was on his knees 
before her. 

' ' Mother ! " the boy sobbed, broken- 
ly, ' ' mother ! God bless you ! ' ' 

The Passing Show 


(As seen by the girl at the ticket window) 

A shuffling man, with a careworn face. 
And a child of most appealing grace, 
A woman with gnarled and knotted hands, 
And a swarthy couple from Eastern lands, 
Seek an hour of joy in their dull, gray day. 
Thru the magical lure of the Picture Play. 

The blonde with the jeweled lavalliere 
And a dancing gown, is Miss Vere de Vere ; 
And the man in the faultless evening clothes 
Is Stoxon Bonds, who, as every one knows. 
Lures her from dinners and dances gay 
To coo in her ear at the Picture Play. 

Two grinning urchins are eagerly 
Crowding ahead of a group of three, 
Who came from the rural fields and lanes. 
To be rewarded for time and pains 
By journeys adown the primrose way, 
Via the Motion Picture Play. 

So day by day they come and go — 
Never the same is the passing show. 
Some are seeking to find respite 
From a day of worry, or sleepless night; 
Others ask pleasure alone when they stray 
In to the Motion Picture play ! 


fT might as well be now as any 
time," he muttered, savagely. 
A swift glance from one end 
of the bridge to the other showed that 
there were no interfering passers-by 
to dread. He cast one look at the 
stars — blinking at him tliru a thick 
pall of fog — another one at the swirl- 
ing, black water beneath him. Then, 
his hand M'as on the rail — his body 
bent forward — his muscles drawn 

"Oh, no, no ; you mustn't !" cried a 
voice, from out the fog. There was a 
soft rush of footsteps, and a light 
hand lay upon his. It was very dark 
on the bridge; he could just distin- 
guish a slender form, in a long, dark 
ulster, standing close beside him. 

"You mustn't!" the voice begged 
again. ' ' How could you think of such 
a thing — ^you, a man, able to fight the 

"To fight it, yes; to work with it, 
no, ' ' he replied, bitterness burning in 
his tones. "That's all I've ever done 
— fight it! And I'm floored, now, 
down and out, ready to cry 'enough' 
and quit it. Why didn't you let me 
alone? I'd be at rest now." 

"At rest?" she questioned, quietly. 
"Does the soul of a coward ever rest? 


Somehow, I picture it a black, skulk- 
ing, cringing shadow, driven up and 
down thru eternity by an unquiet, 
tormenting fear that forbids peace." 

' ' A coward ! " he exclaimed. ' ' You 
take a great deal for granted — you 
judge with no knowledge of the cir- 

"There are no circinnstances that 
justify a man, or a woman, in giving 
up the fight." 

They were walking toward the end 
of the bi'idge now, her hand still 
resting lightly on his arm. He was 
vaguely conscious that her figure was 
slender and graceful ; that her voice 
rippled lightly, with trained modula- 
tion ; that she carried herself with the 
light, sure poise of the woman he had 
known long ago. 

"What do you know about it?" he 
demanded, harshly. "What do you 
know of the world — of poverty, temp- 
tation, sin, regret, despair?" 

At the fierceness of his question she 
stopped, drawing him swiftl.y into the 
circle of pale radiance from the arc- 
light at the bridge's end. 

"Look at me," she said. 

He stared at her, dumbly: at the 
slender figure, so shabbily clothed ; at 
the holes in the tiny shoes; at the 



luuuls, thin to boniness; at the great 
l)raids of dark hair, fraiiiing a face so 
pallid that tlie big eyes, beneath their 
heavy lashes, looked like smouldering 
coals, from which the light had almost 

"You see," she said, very quietly, 
"I know all about it — all! Poverty, 
sin, temptation, regret, despair! But 
you must keep fighting. Tiie way out, 

waiting. At last the line began to 
move up, irregularly, with nnich 
unsteady shuffling. Charles Ilutton 
moved with it, dully, only half con- 
scious of his surroundings. He was 
faint and sick ; his brain was whirling ; 
wherever lie looked, he seemed to see 
black, swirling waters, stars shining 
palely thru the fog, a slender form 
beside him in the darkness. 


for you or for me, does not lie by the 
river, my friend. Good-by." 

She was running swiftly away, into 
the darkness. He called after her, 
hoarsely : 

"But who are you?" 

"One of the submerged," floated 
back the lightly rippling voice. 

The bread-line was an unusually 
long one that night, a shivering, fog- 
drenched thread of humanity stretch- 
ing far down the Bowery. At the very 
end stood Charles Hutttfti, grimly 

"Here, take your coffee," a voice 
gi'owled, good-naturedly. " 'Taint 
often youse is last in line ; must be you 
had a date tonight." 

"I did — and it was a good one." 
The black coffee had cleared his brain 
and braced his flagging energies. 
' ' Say, let me see your paper a minute, 
will you ? I want to look at the want 

"Sure. Goin' to work, I s'pose," 
chuckled the lucky owner of a paper, 

"That's just what I am," declared 



Hutton, scanning the page, seriously. 
Suddenly he gave a quick exclama- 
tion, staring at the paper with wide 
eyes. A moment later he had dropped 
it, with a hasty "Thanks," and 
hurried away. 

"Now I wonder wot got him?" 
soliloquized the man who was left be- 
hind. He picked up the paper, spell- 

Tlie bread-line continued to train 
its dingy length down the Bowery 
every night, dumbly patient while it 
lengthened ; then, hitching unsteadily 
forward, shortening, disintegrating, 
flinging its miserable fragments of 
humanity out upon the city's tide 
again, to drift until another night 
closed in. The fragments varied in 


ing out some of the "wants" labori- 
ously. "Dont see nuttin' for him to 
go nutty over," he decided, folding 
tlie wrinkled sheet for further perusal 
on a park bench. 

But the paragraph that had sent 
Charles Hutton ofl', in such desperate 
haste, Avas not a want ad. It was 
headed personal, and it read : 

Charlie H.: Come home to me. I am 
dying. I forgive all. Father. 

name and birthplace, perhaps, from 
night to night, but the type seldom 
changed. Always the dull, discour- 
aged face, the shifty glance, the stolid 
indifference of the man hardened to 
poverty and alms. 

Round the corner laj' Chinatown, 
quiet by day, awaiting the visits of 
tourists, philanthropists, and the 
ever-present social workers, studying 
"types," making copious notes in 
leather-backed note-books, as if man 's 



problems could be cataloged, indexed, 
filed away, and so disposed of. At 
night Chinatown woke up ; the tour- 
ists and social workers continued to 
come, carefully guided and chaper- 
oned now, but others came, too. 
Women with yellow hair and painted 
faces and eyes that showed, beneath 
their artificial glitter, the pain of 
world-weariness and despair. Men — 
young, old, rich, poor, sympathetic, 
curious, careless — they all came, 
looked on, amused themselves, and 

their presence — they lay in studied 
attitudes, smoking, and awaiting the 
inevitable visitors, who seldom failed, 
to leave substantial coin in token of 
their sympathy. 

Into this den stepped Charles 
Hutton, handsome, prosperous, well- 
groomed, with a richly gowned beauty 
clinging to his arm, while she peered 
around with wondering, amused eyes. 
Other women in the party looked hor- 
rified, or sympathetic, but this girl 
seemed to see, in the tawdry, miser- 


scuttled away with the first streaks 
of dawn. 

A reeking, noisome opium den on 
Mott Street stood wide open, one 
night, for tourists to enter — a certain 
indication that the loathsome details 
of the room had been worked out with 
an eye to the tourist's patronage, 
rather than for the actual use of 
Chinatown's habitues. Slant-eyed 
women in gaily flowered kimonos; 
narrow-eyed men, with long, slimy 
braids coiled above yellow faces; 
others, both women and men, without 
even the claim of nationality to justify 

able scene, only a cause for con- 
temptuous merriment. 

"Wake up, Charles," she said, im- 
patiently, noting the dreaminess of his 
eyes. "You stand there looking as if 
you had all the sentimental sympathy 
of my Aunt Nell. See her over there, 
now, talking to that horrible woman. 
She looks ready to cry — it's all fool- 
ishness. If these folks didn't want to 
live this kind of life, they wouldn't do 
it, that's all." 

His eyes had turned to her now, 
with a calm, half accusing scrutiny, 
which made her flush, impatiently. 



"Are you quite sure you know what 
you're talking about, Dolores?" he 

"Certainly," she flashed back, posi- 
tively. ' ' I told father, tonight, where 
we were going, and he said it was all 
right, if you came with us, but not to 
let my sympathies carry me away, for 
all these places are fixed up to im- 
press sightseers and get money out of 
them. And he said these people could 
be decent, if they wanted to." 

was her right to know. But, was he 
to marry her? He glanced down at 
the beautiful face again, and a flood 
of doubt swept his heart. A few hours 
ago he had been sure that he loved . 
her. He had tried to propose to her, 
first in the conservatory, then, when 
an interruption came at an inoppor- 
tune moment, he had led her out to the 
balcony, away from all her guests, to 
try again. But again an interrup- 
tion had come, and then the pro- 


But Charles Hutton made no re- 
sponse. He was thinking of the vast 
difference between his life tonight 
and the life he had been living two 
years ago, when his dying father's 
message had called him home, to re- 
ceive his blessing and share in his 
vast fortune. He felt a sudden im- 
pulse to tell this girl all about the 
follies that liad sent him from home; 
the pride and rebellion that had kept 
him living on, in abject poverty and 
despair, only a few miles distant from 
his home ; the message that had called 
him back. If he was to marry her, it 

posal for a slumming party banished 
his chances of further tete-a-tete for 
that night. "Was it fate ? Her heart- 
less attitude toward the miserable be- 
ings she was looking upon made him 
vaguely uneasy. 

"Nonsense!" he said to himself, 
with an impatient shrug. "I'm get- 
ting too critical. How can I expect 
Dolores to understand ? She's had no 
experience with life. ' ' 

She had left him for a moment; 
now she came dancing back, her lovely 
face glowing like a flower in the 
sordid surroundings. 



"We're going down on the Bowery, 
to see the bread-line," she said. 
"Uncle says it's great fun." 

"Fun for the bread-line, or for the 
spectators?" he asked, cj'nieally, but, 
in the bustle of departure, she did not 
notice his question. 

The bread-line! Yes, there it was, 
just as it had been two years ago. The 
same slinking, shuffling file of out- 
casts, waiting for the scant portion 
which would put a little warmth into 

spirit, he was walking a long, dark 
bridge, with an arc-light flaring 
dimly thru thick fog, in the distance. 
Beside him walked a slender, dark- 
cloaked figure. A chill wind was 
cutting their faces, a dank mist was 
floating up from the black waters be- 
neath. The girl was speaking to him, 
in a rippling voice, and her hand was 
resting lightly on his arm. In a flash, 
Charles Hutton realized what it was 
for which he had been vaguely hunger- 


their starved bodies. Somehow, he 
had never realized before that the 
bread-line was still forming every 
night; that while he lived in luxury, 
the rest of them were there, living the 
same old life. His thoughts were in- 
terrupted now by Dolores, who put a 
delicate hand on his arm as she 
leaned forward, pointing. 

"See, what a lot of them there 
are," she said, "and they all look 
alike, dont they ? Isn 't it funny ! ' ' 

Funny! What was it that swept 
over him with the touch of her hand 
upon his arm like that ? Suddenly, in 

ing, thruout the long mouths ; why it 
Avas that he had felt unsatisfied with 
life, unsatisfied with Dolores, doubt- 
ing his love, not knowing his own 
mind, and, with the realization, came 
a great wave of tliankfulness that he 
had not committed himself, that he 
was free to seek her — the girl whose 
name he did not even know, the girl 
who had saved his life and fled away 
into the darkness. 

" It is time to go home, ' ' he told the 
party. ' ' The best part of the show is 
over, now that the animals are fed." 
and they laughed, not noticing the 



irony of his voice. Aud, while; they 
made their way homeward, flying np 
the long avenue in cozy limousines, 
his mind was asking, over and over: 
"How shall I find her — not even her 
name to help me? Wliere shall I 
hegin? - 

"Begin at the river, where she 
found you, before," some inner voice 
seemed to urge, and, for want of a 
better suggestion, lie acted upon tliis 
one. Bidding Dolores good-night, at 
her own door, he ran down the steps, 
and gave a hurried direction to the 
chauffeur. In another moment he was 
speeding toward the river. 

The bridge was dark and silent; a 
gray mist was rising from the water, 
obscuring the stars, it was very late, 
and no one had crossed the bridge for 
a half-hour, wlien a slender form 
crept softly out from the shadows 
and peered cautiously up and down 
the dim lengtii of tiie structure. No 
one was in sight; no footstep was 
approaching. She caught her breath 
in a strangling sob, and turned her 
face, for an instant, toward the stars, 
but the fog hid them — tliei-e was no 
tiny ray of light. Slie leaned far over 
tlie rail, looking down into the swirl- 
ing water. 

"It's cowardly," siie wiiispered, 
softly. "I hate myself for doing it — 
but I must have rest — I naust have 

For an instant, she stood motion- 
less, watching, listening. Then, her 
hand was on the rail — her body bent 
forward — her muscles drawn tense — 

A rush of heavy footsteps, a horri- 
fied cry, in a man's strong tones, a 
hand upon hers, closing over it, draw- 
ing her back, with firm grasp. 

"You mustn't do that, yon know," 
he said, and his tones were shaking. 
' ' I was just in time, wasn 't I ? There, 
there, dont cry, now. I'm going to 
take you back to my ear, and take you 
where you'll be cared for, until you 
get on your feet again. Wasn't it 
lucky I came? You see, I am looking 
for some one — some one that I'm ter- 
ribly anxious to find, and I just 
thought she might possibly be walking 

in this direction. But 111 see to yon 
first — tlien I'll look for her again." 

He was patting her hand, and 
soothing her, as one soothes a way- 
ward, frightened child, but she did 
not speak. She only sobbed and 
shuddered and pulled her worn scarf 
closer about her face. 

' ' Walk back to the end of the bridge 
with me now," he went on. "My car 
is there. And dont take it so hard. 
Let me tell you, I was all ready to 
take that dive myself, two years ago, 
and I was stopped — stopped by a slip 


of a girl, who ran away into the dark- 
ness, and I never saw her again. But 
I'll find her, if it takes the rest of my 
life. She'll be your friend, too, after 
I find her; we'll be friends to all the 
unfortunates — 'the submerged,' she 
called them." 

They were walking toward the end 
of the bridge now, his hand beneath 
her arm, but still she did not speak. 
They came out into the glow of the 
arc-light, and he beckoned to the 
waiting chauffeur. 

"Drive close here," he said; "the 
lady is faint. " 




Then, as he would have lifted the 
slender form, to place it upon the soft 
cushions of the ear, the light fell full 
upon lier face, and he gave a sudden 
cry of joy and wonder. 

' ' You ! " he cried. ' ' You ! is it pos- 
sible? And I was just in time! A 
moment later, and — my God !" 

His arms closed around her, and 
she yielded, with a long sigh. For a 
time there was silence — a silence tense 
with gratitude and love and hope. 

Then he turned to the chauffeur, who 
was discreetly watching the river. 

"Dan," he said, "do you know 
where one of those ministers live 
who'll perform the marriage cere- 
mony at any hour ? ' ' 

"Yessir," said Dan, promptly, his 
face betraying no emotion whatever; 
"I've taken many a couple to one." 

"Then take us, immediately," or- 
dered Ilutton. 

' ' Yessir, ' ' said Dan. 



F,vE^' times one this week I've seen 
I'ictures tlirowii l).v tlio (left luacliine. 
Seven times two tlie films I'd view 
If iliey'd show tlie number I want tliem to. 
Seven times tln'oe tlie actois sa.v 
I've learnt to watch for in picture play. 
Seven times four were those in tlie row 
.Vliead of me tonijrlit at tlie show. 
Seven times five the times I clapped 
My hands at a climax deftly capped. 
Seven times six the friends I've known 
Whose athniration is like m.v own. 
Seven times seven the times I'd go 
With you if I could to a Picture Show. 


Myred Face Fred Mace 

Sack Mennet .Mark Sennet 

Mrs. Smith Mabel Normand 

NOT the least bit put out by the 
sudden termination of his daz- 
zling, but, on the whole, unsuc- 
cessful career in New York, Myred 
Pace, gentleman detective, crossed the 
Continent to Los Angeles, and opened 
offices there for the detection of crime 
and of baffling mysteries in those 
intricate cases that were so often 
woodenly handled by the police. 

As he had settled deep in his ulster 
in the Pullman, he had realized, with 
delight, that his inseparable side-part- 
ner and fellow sleuth, Sack Mennet, 
was not his traveling companion. The 
fact is that he had deliberately shook 

They had worked out together their 
first famous cases, braving the perils 
of high society and the underworld, 
but then, suddenly, had come reverses. 
They had bungled some highly im- 
portant cases, and, henceforth. Pace, 
the more daring of the two, had de- 
cided to start a clean slate, alone. 

He had barely established himself 
in his new quarters, when a tall, thin 
man, dressed as a steam-fitter's helper, 
presented himself, and started be- 
laboring his office radiator with a 
hammer. It was in August, and melt- 
ing hot, with the windows thrown 
open, and Pace stood the mechanic's 
pother as well as he could. 

Presently he got up softly, crossed 
over back of his peace-disturber, and 
looked fixedly at the kneeling man's 


shoes. They were of a stylish last, 
but caked with mud on the soles. 

"Ah!" said Pace, in an even tone, 
"it is Sack Mennet, and no other." 

The noise on the radiator ceased, 
and the tall mechanic turned a sheep- 
ish, injured face toward the speaker. 

"Yes," he admitted, slowly, "it's 
me — ^but how did you spot me, 

"It was the acme of simplicity, 
bonehead," answered Pace. "The 
noise at the radiator apprised me that 
some one was in the office, the in- 
appropriateness of a steam-fitter in 
August warned me of a disguise, and 
I had only to notice the caked mud on 
your soles to complete the discovery." 

"I had first thought of appearing 
as an iceman," began Mennet, some- 
what sadly, "but that role has been 
done to death. 

"Tell me, Myred," he burst out 
eagerly, "what the mud on my 
soles " 

"Nothing more simple. That par- 
ticular kind of mud is found in quan- 
tity only around the excavation of the 
New York subway. As soon as I 
recognized it " 

"But I've brushed my shoes re- 
peatedly since then," protested 

"It makes no difference," said 
Pace. "Why argue? With your lack 
of theory and. imagination, you will 
never make a great detective." 



The late steam-fitter was silent for a 
long moment. 

"At any rate," he resumed, "I 
found you again — give me credit for 

"Yes," admitted Pace; "you have 
me there. How did you do it?" 

"I will begin in the categorical 
method," said Mennet, sententiously, 
"by asking you: Do you remember 
the chauffeur who drove you to the 
Penn. Railroad Station?" 

" I do not, nor never will. I walked 
to the Central." 

"Oh, punctures ! Have it your own 
way. Do you happen to remember the 
organ-grinder who followed you on 
foot, then?" 

"Yes," said Pace, puffing excitedly 
on his calabash. ' ' Was it you ? " 

"Certainly, fathead!" cried Men- 
net, triumphantly, "and the hand- 
organ was nothing but my trunk, 
ready packed. I had but to jump on 
the Pullman, change clothes " 

"S-s-h!" said Pace, suddenly. 
"Did you hear a step on the stair?" 

"Let me investigate," said Mennet, 
his instincts aroused. '_. 

"No ; by the time you have found a 
clew on the stairs, the person will 
have moved either up or down." 

It was as Pace had predicted. The 
sound of hurried feet continued on 
up the stairs, and, presently, a knock 
came upon the door. 

"A woman," said Mennet; "no one 
else would knock on an unlocked 

Pace seated himself at his desk, 
rustled some documents sharply, then 
called out: "Come in." 

The door opened, and a diminutive 
young lady, with a very flushed face, 
advanced timidly into the office. 

"Is this the office of Mr. Myred 
Pace?" she inquired. 

"I am he," said Pace, with a slight 
inclination of his head. 

She looked wonderingly at the easy 
attitude of the steam-fitter in a Morris 

"Pray be seated," said Myred, 
hurriedly, "and do not be embar- 
rassed at the presence of my co- 
worker, Mr. Mennet, who has just 

returned from a highly important 
investigation of the organ-grinders' 

' ' Steam-fitters, ' ' corrected Mr. Men- 

"I have come to consult you," she 
began, "about the actions of my hus- 
band, Mr. Neheraiah Smith." She 
paused to brush a fugitive tear from 
her peachblow cheek, which made 
the steam-fitter sigh in a hollow 

"Mother," she resumed, "always 
wanted me to marry a middle-aged 
man — she said I was too romantic — 
so I finally fell for the attentions of 
Nehemiah, who was the proprietor of 
the swellest barber shop in town. All 
went well — Nemmy was a model hus- 
band, until he decided to increase his 
business by carrying a line of theat- 
rical wigs for chemical blondes. Prom 
tj?at day, ' ' she faltered, ' ' Nemmy has 
not been the same." 

"Calm yourself," said Pace, gal- 
lantly. "It is shockingly cruel — I, 

too " He left off abruptly, his 

head bowed with memories. 

Mennet came to his rescue. "My 
colleague's researches," he began, "in 
the field of chemistry have been pro- 
found. She was the dearest old lady ! ' ' 
he exclaimed, and ended, as Pace 
glowered at him fiercely. 

"What made me decide to consult 
you," said the little lady, abruptly, 
"was the receipt of this unsigned 
letter, which intimates that Mr. Smith 
has transferred his affections." 

Pace took the sheet of scented note- 
paper which she held out to him, and 
scrutinized it closely thru his magni- 

"To the profession which honors 
me," he said, "this simple missive 
whispers a hundred little stories ; but, 
first, let me ask you: Have you con- 
sulted the police department?" 

She shook her glossy curls em- 

"Then," advised Pace, "there is no 
time to be lost. In the detection of 
crime — or in this ease, let us hope, only 
.a passing fancy — ^there is nothing so 
inconspicuous as the conspicuous. We 
will, therefore, proceed to track your 



husband in a touring-car, in which 
vehicle lie would not be likely to 
notice you." 

"Why not use a fire-engine?" 
breathed Mennet, ironically, but 
Face's pretty client began to appre- 
ciate his cleverness. "I'm so glad I 
came to you," she said, demurely. 

She was rather frightened, tho, at 
the elaborate preparations of the de- 
tectives for their trip. The roomy 
pockets of their tweed ulsters seemed 

and a well-preserved man, in his shirt- 
sleeves, came out, and walked slowly 
down the street, shaking his head in 

Mrs. Smith almost screamed as 
Face grasped her arm. "It's my hus- 
band," she panted; "tho what he is 
doing at home " 

"Silence!" said the detective. "I 
was unable to see his face ; but what I 
have noticed convinces me that the 
man is a consummate actor : his slam- 


to swallow an armory of revolvers, 
brass-knuckles, and even handcuffs. 

As the car bowled along, too, to- 
ward her bungalow in the suburbs, 
with the two determined men in fore- 
and-aft caps on either side of her, she 
decided that she was become heartily 
sorry of the peril she was invoking 
for Nemmy. 

But it was too late to revoke. Al- 
ready the ear had drawn iip to the 
curb, a few doors from her home, and 
the inexorable men at her side were 
watching it. 

Presently the front-door slammed, 

ming of the door, his perplexed man- 
ner, and his coatlessness. " 

"I should deduce them in his 
favor," said Mennet. 

"You tyro! of course you would," 
sneered Face. "You reason from the 
evident. The whole thing was a fine 
bit of acting to disarm suspicion." 

Mrs. Smith was now convinced that 
her husband was in the chitches of 
unerring justice. Still she hesitated, 
as she descended from the car, in 
leaving him altogether to the mercy 
of his pursuers. 

"Whatever happens," she said, the 



tear coming on her cheek again, "do 
not use those horrid things in your 

Face and Mennet bowed impres- 

"It is only in extreme cases " 

began one. 

"When the bearded lamb becomes 
a lion " commenced the other. 

But the chugging of the motor, as 
the car started, cut off their fateful 

Under Face's direction, the car 
trailed along at a snail's pace, keep- 
ing just within sight of the uncon- 
scious Nehemiah. For the first time, 
they noticed that he was carrying a 
small, white box. Presently he turned 
into a side street of small shops, 
and was lost to view. The detectives 
stopped the car, and, ordering the 
chauffeur to await their return, imme- 
diately followed their quarry. 

As has been said, it was a piping 
hot afternoon, approaching dusk, and 
the sleuths cannot be blamed for 
the extraordinary events that now 

It had so happened that, at the 
solicitation of his buxom wife, Nora, 
the celebrated Police Captain Larkin, 
also in his shirt-sleeves, had gone 
around the corner to a little shop for 
a box of ice-cream, tho, personally, he 
preferred the contents of a two-quart 
pitcher. It was Nora's birthday, and 
he had made up his mind to go right 

Thus it was, as Face and Mennet 
turned the corner and opened up the 
side street to their view, that they 
came almost face to face with their 
supposed victim, carrying his little, 
white box. 

Face, with rare presence of mind, 
took out his calabash, lighted it, and 
stared at space with the vacuity of ah 
English tourist. Mennet sank deep 
into his ulster. 

Captain Larkin, however, humming 
a bit of a song, had no sooner turned 
his own corner than they were after 
him like hounds. 

The happy officer ascended his 
steps, and was greeted by Nora, in the 
doorway, with a boisterous hug. Per- 

haps he had never come home with 
such a harmless package before. 

"Trapped!" said Face, his eyes 
glinting, "and now to business. I had 
thought at first of engaging rooms 
across the street, disguised as a 
teacher of music, and of weaving the 
net from there, but, now that the hus- 
band is caught flagrante delicto, we 
have but to make the arrest and 
notify his wife." 

"Whatever that is," murmured 
Mennet. "By the way, my part is to 
notify wifey. " 

"Not at all," said Face ; "send the 
car back for her." 

"You dont mean that you're go- 
ing?" demanded Mennet, paling. 
"Smith looks like a peevish person, 
when aroused." 

"Nonsense! We will make the 
arrest together — ^Mrs. Smith having 
stopped at the station-house, and 
bringing up reenforcements in the 

"I see. If Smith proves an ugly 
customer, the sight of his wife and a 
flock of policemen in the ear should 
cool him somewhat." 

' ' Yes — after we have held the spot- 
light, they can do the dirty work." 

Face, being a man of action when 
the time came, drew his revolver, and 
stealthily approached the house. Men- 
net ran around the corner, whispered 
to the chauffeur, and returned. 

Even as Face held his finger on the 
button, in a, long, sickening ring, he 
could see, thru the parlor window, the 
husky, faithless Smith fold the woman 
to his breast again. 

As the chain was slipped from the 
door. Pace and Mennet stood tense, 
with leveled weapons. The joy of 
the chase shone from their refined 

The culprit stood cowering before 

"What the d " he said, and 

started to close the door. But Face 
stuck his foot against it, and flashed 
his badge in the hall-light. 

' ' Silence ! " he commanded. * ' Come 
with me — in five minutes she will be 
here to view your shame." 

Mennet succeeded in slipping the 



slide of his bull's-eye, and its beam 
caught the Captain full in the face. 

He made passes, as in a nightmare, 
then lowered his hands, with resigna- 
tion, before the battery of weapons. 

Pace slipped the handeutfs over 
them, and led him out to the street. 
It is true that Nora Larkin kept up a 
running fire of mixed abuse and 
entreaty from the parlor window, but 
they treated her as a fallen angel, and 
proceeded firmly on their way. 

Not so with Captain Larkin. At 
sight of the blueeoats and waving 
nightsticks, his chest expanded, as 
does a South American generalis- 
simo 's before his army. 

"Casey, O'Reilly; this way!" he 

With a final chug, the car slowed 
down, and the blueeoats shouldered 
a path thru the crowd. Before the 
handcuffed prisoner they halted, sa- 
luted, and became men of bronze. 


A crowd collected, and impeded 
their progress in this hour of triumph, 
even as far as the corner. At the self- 
same instant the musical humming of 
a high-power car could be heard com- 
ing down the asphalt, with three 
policeman leaning far out of the ton- 
neaii. A pretty, young woman, with 
a tear ever on her cheek, was sand- 
wiched in among them. 

At sight of her. a shirt-sleeved, 
middle-aged man in the crowd stared 
till his mild eyes were popping from 
their sockets. 

Mennet looked at Face, and his fea- 
tures became convulsed with bitter- 
ness, as he noted the Roman grand- 
ness of his pose and expression. 

"Wake lip," he said; "the ball's 
been knocked over the fence again. ' ' 

"Flagrante delicto," said Face, im- 
pertui'bably, "which means " 

"To the cooler with them," roared 
Captain Larkin, in unconscious inter- 

In the tonneau, the middle-aged 
man was kissing the tear from the 
peachblow cheek. 

THE Trysting Garden, they called it. 
And in all the sunny Southland 
there had not been a happier or 
more beautiful spot for nearly a cen- 
tury past. The garden lay just out- 
side the prosperous village of Arden, 
looking over one of the fairest valleys 
in all Tennessee. It was reached thru 
a friendly walk of lilac bushes, just 
high enough and thi(;k enough to hide 
the soft murmurs and gentle caresses 
of amorous swains. 

It had been said that they who 
wooed here never knew sorrow. 

But that was before the days of 
'61 and the years that followed. 

The sun was setting on a spring 
afternoon in the year '62. Three 
pairs of lovers stood together — yet 
each alone in the tumult of their 
own hearts — wistfully gazing off to- 
ward the northwest. There the sky, 
as if in prophecy, was bathed in crim- 
son, with a host of gray clouds pursu- 
ing and closing in on a patch of blue 

Each of the young men wore a 


uniform of gray. They could see the 
bayonets of their newly formed regi- 
ment flashing fii-e at the descending 
sun yonder in the valley. 

At length, two of the pairs de- 
parted, leaving the garden alone to 
Harvey Dixon and Mary Dexter. 

"It is not as tho 1 were leaving you 
alone, to the possible ravaging and 
pillaging of our enemy," said Harvey, 
comfortingly. ' ' Either my brother or 
I had to remain home to hold our 
acres. He was more fitted for the task 
than I. He, Mary, will protect you 
and your mother, and watch over you 
with the same care as I. Why do you 
shudder, dear?" 

Mary did not reply at once. 

"I value your care more, Harvey." 

' ' Naturally, ' ' he said, smiling. 

"There! I hear the bugle calling 
'assembly'; you had better ride 
along." Her voice was strong, yet 
she clung to him dissuadingly. 

"I understand that our regiment is 
to be stationed near here, and carry 
on a guerilla campaign until " 


She was looking at him strangely. 
Then, without a word, she threw her 
arms about his neck and wept. The 
bugle called again, and he gently dis- 
engaged her arms, and slowly made 
his way down the hillside, with a 
heaviness of heart he had never before 

The girl lifted her eyes and watched 
him until he mounted his horse and 
rode out of sight. "Good-by, good- 
by," she sobbed. 

Less than a j'ear before, three of 
her uncles had ridden away — never to 
return. This was 
the thought i n 
Mary Dexter 's 

This thought 
grew as the 
months passed by 
and Harvey's 
regiment was 
driven fa rth er 
and farther from 
Arden. No word 
came fi-om Har- 
vey, but, already, 
seventeen of 
Arden 's y o u n g 
sons had been 
brought home to 
sleep forever i n 
the village bury- 
ing - ground. 1 1 
w a s well known 
that many more 
had been killed. 

The sacred 
Trysting Garden was now used as a 
park for a vicious Union battery that 
menaced the home-coming ot" any 
but the dead. 

Stephen Dixon, Harvey's brother, 
gave ample attention to Mary and her 
motlier. In fact, his attitude was that 
of one having assumed not only the 
duties but the privileges of the other. 
He never failed to speak of his brother 
except in terms of bereavement, and 
always supplemented his lamenting 
by soothing Mary in the most personal 
and intimate way. 

One day the girl was so inceiised 
over his insinuating manner and com- 
forting caresses that she turned on 

him with: "Now, look here, Stephen; 
I dont want you to take such liberties, 
as you are doing more and more every 

day, until your brother — but " 

Stephen flushed crimson at first, 
and then said contritely: "I have 
every reason to fear that my brother 
is dead, Mary. You rebuke me, yet I 
am doing nothing more than he asked 
me to do. You know what a great, un- 
selfish heart he had, and what his 
dearest wish was ? ' ' 

She shook her head; already she 
was sorry for her impulsive words. 

"While he 
lived," he con- 
tinued, speaking 
in such a way as 
to impress the 
idea tliat Harvey 
really was dead, 
"his dearest wish 
was that you 
should become 
his wife. But 
should he die — 
he has told me so 

m any, m any 
times — above all 
things he desired 
that I might—" 

' ' No , no, 
Stephen; I shant 
listen to more of 
this. He is not 
dead, I tell you ; 
he is not dead!" 
But Mary 's 
words and her 
heart did not agree. Slie believed that 
he was dead. But the weeks wore into 
months, and, at length, the months 
grew into a long, weary year. 

Arden had become a pivot of action. 
The outposts and scouts of both 
armies were camped on its outskirts. 
The village was suffering great hard- 
ship that brought its inhabitants into 
a closer communion than they had 
ever before known. They were as one 
heart with their bleeding South. They 
prayed and Avept and clung to each 
other closer than, brothers and sisters. 
Stephen had been obliged to aban- 
don the Dixon plantation temporarily, 
and he was welcomed to share the roof 



of the Dexters by both mother and 
daughter. His daily acts of thought- 
fulness soon won him a close place in 
their affections. 

And soon Mary caught herself 
drinking in the many little tricks of 
gesture and speech that belonged to 
her lamented Harvey, and trying to 
reconcile them and her heart to 
Stephen. As for Stephen, his line of 
attack was never allowed to waver or 
pause for a moment. He first won her 
sympathy, then preyed upon it in the 
name of him who 
had passed away 

"Oh, if I only 
knew,'' she 
mourned one day, 
after Stephen had 
taken her in his 
arms and let her 
weep out the bit- 
terness in her 
heart. He had 
done nothing more 
than that, yet 
there had been, 
in this manly 
strength to fall 
back on, a comfort 
that she scarcely 
dared acknowl- 
edge. And it was 
his wish, she told 

They were con- 
stant companions 
now. Stephen's 
burning passion for the girl had now 
risen to a pitch that frightened her. 
He no longer hesitated in declaring 
his love. 

"Harvey has been dead more than 
a j^ear now," he urged. "God knows 
how sincerely we have both mourned 
him. Let us unite our griefs. Accept 
my love and my proposal of marriage, 
and let us leave our pillaged lands 
and aid the Cause on a foreign shore. ' ' 

There was neither promise nor re- 
fusal in her words. "I must knoiv, 
before I shall ever think of anything 
or any one else but him." Yet, half 
in despair, she knew that the very 
roofs would probably be soon burned 

fierce had become 
possess Arden, the 

Both sides had 

over the heads, so 
the struggle to 
bone of contention, 
sworn to demolish it. 

Stephen left Mary that day, his 
face reflecting anything but the sweet 
patience of his words. He went to his 
room, and gave a private exhibition of 
his pent-up feelings. A few pieces of ■ 
the furniture were smashed in the 
process. Then he went away, leaving 
a note saying that he would be gone 
for several days on a matter concern- 
i n g his late 
b r 1 h e r. Asa 
]n after of fact, 
Stephen secreted 
himself and stayed 
for three da.ys in 
the old Dixon 
homestead, which 
had been closed. 

Mary was fran- 
tic with unre- 
quited anxiety. 
This was height- 
ened by the fact 
that there had 
been a great deal 
of desultory fight- 
ing around and 
a li u t A !• d e n , 
which grew fiercer 
each day. Strange- 
ly, she found her- 
self anxious now 
lest Stephen, too, 
had met the in- 
visible fate that 
she no longer doubted was Harvey's. 

Her anxiety was relieved, in a great 
feeling of thankfulness, on the after- 
noon of the third day, when Stephen 
returned, looking very much as tho he 
had been on a rough campaign. He 
had, too, in some measure, for an out- 
post of Union soldiers, in search of an 
escaped prisoner, had routed him out 
of his old home and given him a lively 
chase that bid fair to end fatally. 

"Oh, you are safe!" cried Mary, 
giving free vent to her feelings. "I 

had feared " 

He had actually drawn her closely 
to him. "No," he said, "but I had a 
narrow escape, and I have news." 



She drew away fi-om him, and 
looked, searchingly, into his eyes. 

"Yes," he said quietly; "my 
brother Harvey is — dead. He was 
killed — in battle. I have seen — his 
grave." He enumerated these par- 
ticulars as tho they were indeed hard 
to utter. 

She did not weep. But, turning to 
him a veiy i^ale and solemn face, she 
spoke quietly : " I shall go to my room 
a little while. ' ' 

eyes, unconsciously, sought the win- 
dow of Mary's room. She, too, was 
looking out in alarm, and beckoned 
for him to hurry in. 

They met in the parlor. 

"They seem actually to be fighting 
on Rocky Mound, right on our own 
plantation. There is some sort of dis- 
turbance going on there. As much as 
I hate to do it, I can see that we shall 
soon have to desert the dear old 

When she turned, he had taken a 
step toward her, as if to make some 
further statement. Had she paused, 
he, no doubt, would have said some- 
thing calamitous. 

Stephen then turned his attention, 
with no little apprehension, to the 
warlike situation now developing on 
every side of the Dexter plantation. 
He saw, with alarm, that a small body 
of Yankees had quartered themselves 
between the farm and the town of 
Arden. The town itself seemed to be 
in the hands of Confederates. He 
seemed to view this latter fact with 
even greater apprehension, and his 

"Mary," began Stephen, taking 
both her hands. She looked up at liim, 
and resignedly followed the pressure 
of his arms. "I can protect you 
better now," he said, "my wife-to- 

There was a fusillade of shots now, 
not two hundred yards from the 
house, several of the bullets splinter- 
ing the shingles. 

Stephen frowned at this sinister 
interruption. Mary had drawn away 
and was listening for the recurrence 
of a sound that had taken all the blood 
from her face, that had been crimson 
but a moment before. 



From the window they could see a 
party of Yankees running hither and 
thither, as tho they had lost something. 
Next they were conscious of some one 
having entered the house, and heard 
Dave, their young slave, speaking in a 
voice that was full of tears. Then the 
door of the room, in which they stood, 
was cautiously shoved open. A face 
peered thru that was half covered 
with blood, and next a man, with his 
tattered clothing covered with mud, 
half fell forward into the room, with 
a groan. 

Stephen was truly looking the part 
that he no longer played. His face 
had become cruel and savage under 
the weight of his keen chagrin. 

The man was his hrother, Harvey 

Mary, with tears streaming down 
her face, had fallen like a crushed 
flower at the soldier's feet for a 
single moment. Tlien she became the 
capable woman that Harvey had 
learnt to love. She dragged the 
wounded man to a near-by settee, all 
the while calling assistance. Soon 
there were her mother and old 
Mammy Cindie and her boy, Dave. 
Stephen had stepped out of the door 
and stood leaning against a post, lika 
a man who had suddenly lost his sense 
of comprehension. 

Mary came rushing out to recon- 
noiter. Unspeakable disgust came 
into her eyes at the sight of the man 
who had tried to steal her love. . 

"If I were a man, I'd shoot 

Stephen turned at this rebuke, with 
an evil fire smouldering in his eye. 
Whatever his intention may have been, 
he did not carry it out, but walked 
away without a word. 

Mary went back into the house, 
where she found Dave looking on with 
saucer-eyed wonder. "Here, Dave, 
quick! You follow Master Stephen. 
He's going to do something wicked 
that will maybe kill us all. Use all 
the brains you have now. ' ' 

In the meantime, thru the tender 
and efficient treatment he had re- 
ceived, Harvey Dixon had consider- 
ably revived. 

"You haven't much time to lose; 
they'll be after me again. I got away 
from them two days ago, and they will 
hound me to death. Oh, Mary, I can 
die now that I have had a sight of you 
once more!" 

"Come, Cindie! You take hold 
of Master Harvey's other shoulder; 
we're going to take him to your cabin 
and hide him there." 

The plucky girl and the old mammy 
supported the wounded man to the 
cabin. They had just deposited their 
burden and had begun to screen him 
in a way that he would never have 
been discovered by the casual looker- 
in, when, at that moment, Dave came 
running, his face ashen. 

"Massa Steve's done gone an' tole 
dem good-for-nothin' Yankees we got 
Massa Harvey heah, an' dat we gwine 
to stow him 'way in duh cabin heah !" 
he whispered to Mary. 

' ' They know you are here, Harvey. " 

"It's no use," groaned Harvey. 
"Load my pistols and leave me to 
have it out with those fellows. I'll 
get more than one of them before 
they get me. Oh, God, I can hardly 

"Dave." There was a note in 
Mary's voice that made all present 
turn to the girl in abject obedience. 
"I want you to get to the village, even 
tho you lose your life in the attempt. 
Our men are near there somewhere. 
Go the back way, even if it is a mile 
farther. If we are not rescued, we 
mean to die here in this cabin. Now 

All three watched him run cau- 
tiously thru the orchard, and thence 
down the fence that skirted the lane. 
Hardly a minute later there were 
several puffs of smoke from the hill- 
top, and the boy was seen to roll over 
and over. The onlookers groaned with 
chagrin. All except Cindie, who gave 
a chuckle. "Dat aint nufSn' but dat 
nigger playin' 'possum — you doan' 
know dat coon." 

Sure enough, a few seconds later, 
they saw him crawl out of sight over 
the weed-grown crest of the hill. 

Harvey was shaking his head. "I 
dont like to disappoint you, but the 



Yanks have a cordon foi* a mile abont 
this place, on the lookout for me. 
They'll have Dave before he gets much 
farther." The next instant, almost, 
they heard shots, and four or five 
Union soldiers appeared, with their 
muskets ready for immediate use. 

Mary's face paled. "Close the door 
— quick!" she cried. "Now, mother, 
you devote all your attention to Har- 
vey. Get down as low as you can. 
Come, Cindie, help me barricade the 
door and all the windows but this one. 

takes a step nearer," she warned 
them, darting inside and leveling the 
pistol thru the open window. 

All four of the men advanced with 
a shout. None of the plucky girl's 
first shots took effect. , The soldiers 
dropped down and began to fire, still 
approaching. All of a sudden one of 
them threw up his hands and fell back, 
shot thru the head. As tho she had 
found her rauge, another met the same 
fate the next instant. The remaining 
two fled. 

One of them was seen, a minute 
later, signalling from the top of 
the hill for his companions. A 
dozen blue coats appeared, and 
there was an exciting colloquy, 
with frequent gesticulations in 
the direction of the cabin and the 
two prostrate forms before it. 

Mary turned, panting, and 
blackened with powder. Ilarvey 
was too weak to do much more 

If they think they are going 
to take us easily, they will 
find themselves mistaken!" 

Harvey had half risen, 
trying to load one of his 
pistols. But he fell back 
with a cry of anguish. 
Mary's mother was obliged 
to give immediate attention 
to his bleeding wounds. 

' ' There, Cindie, " c o m - 
manded the girl, "are two 
heavy boxes of ammunition, where we 
hid them in case our men came. Get 
out the two pistols and the muskets, 
and load everything up." 

The four soldiers were approaching, 
with little or no caution. Mary went 
to the door, one of the big pistols in 
her hand. "We women are here alone, 
and dont want to be molested." 

The soldiers gave a laugh of de- 
rision, one of them raising his musket 

"I will shoot the first man who 

than smile, but it was the proudest 
smile that can come to a man's face. 
That the attacking party had in- 
creased to two score men was nothing 
to her now. It would make her service 
all the more gloi'ious. Only once did 
she show emotion^ — that was when she 
saw the form of Stephen slinking 
about among them. Tt provoked her 
to fire the pistol point-blank into their 
midst. She thought she saw Stephen 

This brought an angry shout and 



an immediate attack. The men sur- 
rounded the cabin for the distance of 
a quarter of a mile, stealthily ad- 
vancing in squads of four and five. 
Soon the cabin was riddled with 
bullets, and that any of its inmates 
escaped being wounded was something 
of a miracle. On the other hand, 
seven soldiers now lay outstretched on 
the level plateau before the cabin. 

Mary was nearly exhausted, and 
could scarcely lift to the ledge the 

were loaded, and then turned her 
attention to the door, that was being 
furiously assaulted. 

A minute later, a young officer 
burst in, sword in hand. Wlien he 
saw the lone girl defender, he fell back 
in amazement and admiration. But 
his men had seen the prostrate form 
of Harvey. A minute later, they were 
taking him away, dealing gently with 
tlie women who had attacked them 
so furiously. 

muskets and pistols that Cindie regu- 
larly loaded for her. At length the 
faithful darky sank back with a cry, 
swooning under the pain of a slight 
wound. Mary sat down limply, with 
tears of desperation in her eyes. 
Harvey looked on with helpless ad- 
miration. Mary's mother was washing 
Cindie 's hurt. 

There had come a lull. Then, sud- 
denly, there rose a shout from all 
sides. Mary wearily rose and dis- 
charged the remaining weapons that 

But this victory was short-lived. A 
troop of Confederate cavalry had been 
informed by the intrepid Dave. They 
had swept across country, and met the 
victors off guard as they were emer- 
ging from the cabin. Their force was 
overwhelming against the handful of 
men in blue, and there was nothing to 
do but surrender. 

It was an important victory just at 
that time, and Mary Dexter 's valor 
was responsible for it. She learnt, 
{Concluded on page 156.) 



"1^ UT 1 've loved you all your life, 
tl Beatrice ; it doesn 't seem j os- 
sible that you dont care for 

"I do care for you, Paul; you're 
the dearest friend I have, but I dont 
love you — not that way — I cant, dont 
you see " 

She broke oflf, stammering, her gaze 
fluttering away from his ardent eyes, 
while the rosy color flared, suddenly, 
in her face. An amazed, incredulous 
wonder crept into Paul's eyes, and 
his face paled a trifle. 

"Why, Beatrice," he urged, "tell 
me what you mean ; it cant be possible 
that there is any one else " 

The blue eyes met his beseechingly, 
now; tears were trembling on the 
dark lashes, as if to quench the fire 
of her cheeks. 

' ' Haven 't you noticed — " she began 
bravely; then she paused, tilting her 
fair head quickly to listen. Footsteps 
were crashing thru the brush, a man's 
gay voice was calling: "Beatrice — oh. 
Bee — where are you, anyhow?" 

"Here I am; come on," Beatrice 
called, and, as he saw her face 
brighten, and heard the note of un- 
conscious gladness in her voice, a 
sudden, appalling realization swept 
over Paul Warren. It was Jack whom 
she loved! Jack, his careless, hand- 
some, lovable, young brother, who had 
never had a wish thwarted, nor a 


desire ungratified. For a moment, he 
stood stunned by the revelation that 
destroyed his fond hopes, but. with 
quick command of himself, he forced 
a smile to meet Beatrice's anxious 

"There, children, run along now," 
he said lightly. "This tree needs 
trimming up, and I'm going to do it 
before I go back to the house. ' ' 

"Come on. Bee," laughed Jack. 
"Paul's grumpy; he doesn't want 

■ Hand in hand, they ran down the 
wooded path, their light laughter 
floating back to the man, who watched 
them out of sight, his eyes filled with 
bitter longing ; then his head dropped 
against a low, friendly branch, and he 
stood very still. 

The branches of the encircling trees 
parted, softly, and a slight figure 
stole warily toward Paul. It was a 
young and very beautiful girl, black- 
eyed, with a mass of straight, black 
hair, and a complexion whose clear, 
olive tints needed a second glance to 
proclaim her an octoroon. As she 
stood now, looking down at the bowed 
head, her features were distorted with 
a passion of rage, blended with fear 
and dread. Twice her lips opened, 
as if to speak, and closed again ; once 
she stretched out a slender hand, as if 
to touch the bowed head, but the 
hand wavered, hesitated, and was 



withdrawn. Turning, she crept 
softly away, along the green forest 
path, unseen and unheard by the man, 
who still stood motionless. 

"What shall I do — ^what can I 
do?" she sobbed, as she went on. 
"Oh, why couldn't she have loved 
Paul? Maybe Jack would have 
married me, then! But she is not 
to blame — poor, innocent little Bea- 

Jack Warren, whistling idly, as he 
sauntered down the path, after leav- 
ing Beatrice, came to a sudden stop, 
and his face darkened with a frown 
as he saw the sobbing girl who was 
waiting for him. 

"Well, what's the matter now, 
Zelma?" he demanded, impatiently. 

"Please give me a few minutes. 
Jack," she begged. "I must talk to 

"Well, come back here, then, out of 
sight of folks," he growled, leading 
the way, sulkily, "and make it short 
— I've got a date in half an hour. 
And, for heaven's sake, cut out the 

The girl conquered her sobs, and 
stood for a moment looking, pitifully, 
into Jack's angry eyes. When she 
spoke, her voice was tensely subdued. 

"Jack," she said, "are you going 
to desert me and marry Beatrice?" 

"I'm certainly going to marry 
Beatrice," he declared. "We may as 
well have an understanding right 
now, Zelma. I'm not deserting you; 
I'm not really your husband, and 
never will be. Haven't I told you I'd 
provide for you ? I '11 give you plenty 
of money. If you 're so afraid of your 
brother finding out, you can go away 
from here." 

"But, Jack — " she had sunk to 
her knees now, and was clutching 
desperately at his unwilling hand, 
" — ^you promised to marry me — and I 
love you so ! What can I do ? Think 
of the awful trouble for me — ^you 
have no right to marry Beatrice — she 
would not have you, if she knew — 
you must marry me, in the regular 
way. Jack — ^before a minister." 

But he flung her away, savagely. 
"Marry you?" he sneered. "Why 

should I? You were a fool if you 
ever expected me to." 

"But you promised, again and 
again," she pleaded. 

"Oh, drop it," he snarled; "you 
knew I was a white man, didn't you? 
Here" — he thrust a roll of bills into 
her hands — "take this and go; I'll 
give you more, any time, if you'll be 
sensible, but you ought to know that 
I cant really marry one of your 

With a bound, she was upon her 
feet, flinging the money savagely into 
his face. 

"Take your accursed money!" she 
shrieked. "I wouldn't touch it if I 
starved! God never made one law 
for white and another for black. 
Under your white skin, your soul is as 
black as night. Marry Beatrice, but 
remember this: your children and 
hers will pay the debt of your sin, 
just as the child that is born to me 
must pay the debt of mine ! The sins 
of the father will rest upon the 
children — it is God's law!" 

With this, she was gone, running 
desperately, like some hunted animal, 
across the fields to the pretty cottage 
where she lived with her brother, 

When Jim entered the cottage, 
after his day's work, Zelma was 
bustling about the kitchen, heavy- 
eyed, but outwardly composed. He 
eyed her keenly for a moment before 
he spoke. 

"Did you know Paul Warren's 
going away, to stake a claim in the 
new diggin's?" he asked, suddenly. 

"Paul going away?" Zelma re- 
peated. "Oh, you dont mean he is 
going to stay?" 

Her thoughts were of Paul as she 
had last seen him, in his bitter disap- 
pointment, and her eyes filled with 
sympathetic tears. To her brother, 
who" had been struggling against 
suspicion of his sister for many days, 
her agitation came as an agonizing 
corroboration of his worst fears. 

"What's it to you?" he demanded, 
suddenly catching her by the shoul- 
der, and turning her terrified face up 
to him with a strong hand. "Why 



should you be so worked up if he has 
gone to stay?" 

"Whv, we — we've always been 
friends," she gasped. "You know 
the Warrens have always been good 
to us." 

"Friends!" he repeated bitterly. 
"A nice kind of friendship — do you 
think I dont know, girl ? I 've known 
for weeks, only I wasn 't sure, till 
now, who it was. I suppose this is 
the result of poor mother sending us 
1 school with 
them, and bring- 
ing us up like 
white folks! I'm 
glad mother's 
dead! But I'll 
find him, wherever 
he's gone, and I'll 
kill him like a dog 
—mind that!" 

Then, as the girl 
stood sobbing, the 
door opened, and 
Paul stepped in. 

"Hello, Jim," 
he said, "I just 
dropped in to say 
good-by. I'm off 
for a long stay." 
He stopped as he 
came nearer and 
saw Zelma 's agi- 
tation. "Why, 
what's the matter 
— can I do any- 

"There's a lot 
wrong, as you 
know very well," 
roared Jim, his control snapping at 
what he thought was heartless hypoc- 
risy, "and there's just one thing 
you're going to do about it, and that's 
to die — right here and now ! ' ' 

In an instant, he had whipped a 
heavy revolver from its shelf and 
leveled it at the astonished visitor, 
but Zelma sprang forward, clutching 
the weapon desperately. 

"Dont, Jim. dont — you're wrong — 
it isn't Paul— it's " 

A sharp exclamation made all three 
turn, sharply. There, in the door- 
way, stood Beatrice — pretty, tender- 


hearted Beatrice, who was adored by 
every one on the ranch. 

"Why, whatever is the matter?" 
she asked, coming forward slowly, 
her cheeks paling before the shining 
weapon. "Oh, Paul, what is it ? " 

She looked from Paul to Jim, from 
Jim to Zelma, and back to Paul's 
face. A terrible doubt began to 
form, vaguely, in her innocent mind, 
as she spoke to Paul appealingly. 
"Tell me what it means." 

All the horror of 
the situation 
passed thru Paul's 
brain like a flash. 
He saw Beatrice, 
w h o m he loved 
better than his 
own life, crushed, 
heartbroken, her 
confidence in Jack 
destroyed, her 
love and happi- 
ness blighted. He 
saw his young 
brother's life 
wrecked, saw him 
stretched dead by 
Jim ' s vengeful 
hand. Only a 
moment he hesi- 
tated, then, with a 
meaning glance at 
Jim, he took up 
his burden. 

"It was a mis- 
take of Jim's," he 
said calmly. "Jim 
thought I was go- 
ing away and 
leave Zelma, but I'm not. I'm going 
to marry her, and take her with me. ' ' 
For an instant, Beatrice stared 
into Paul's set face. Then she 
shrank back, shuddering. 

"Oh," she said, "and I had such 
confidence in you, Paul, and you said 
you loved me — you dared to ask me to 
marry you, when you had this guilt 
on your soul! No wonder you did 
not come to say good-by to me ! And 
I ran after you to say it, because I 
thought you were grieving for me! 
Oh, Paul, how could you ? ' ' 
Without waiting for any reply, she 



left the room, and Paul stood staring 
at the spot where she had been. Then 
he turned to Jim. 

"I'll sleep here tonight," he said 
quietly, "so that you wont worry 
about my running away. In the 
morning, I'll marry Zelma, and we 
will go. No, be quiet, Zelma" — as 
the weeping girl tried to speak — "I 
know best; obey me." 

But when Jim, after a watchful, 
sleepless night, knocked at Zelma 's 
door, her room was empty; her bed 
was unrumpled, but a tiny note was 
pinned to her pillow : 

Dearest Jim: 
such a sacrifice. 

I cant let Paul make 
I have gone forever. 

""Well, I cant kill you — ^you were 
willing to marry her, and that clears 
you, I suppose — now get out!" were 
Jim's only words to the man, who, 
without reply, took up his sorrowful 
way across the mountains. 

A year had passed, when Paul left 
the rude cabin on his claim one 
morning, and took the trail to the 
settlement. As he paused for a 
moment, at a spring, a faint, wailing 
cry came to his ears. 

"A baby!" he exclaimed. "It cant 
be possible!" 

A few rapid strides around a bend 
in the trail, and he paused in utter 
amazement. For there, on the green 
grass beside the trail, crouched Zelma, 
her head pillowed against a mossy 
stump, a tiny babe clasped close to 
her breast. 

"Paul!" she exclaimed, as he bent 
over her. "God has sent you — I am 

"But how — " he began, but the 
weary voice interrupted. 

"Never mind how; it is fate. I 
wandered far — into the darkness and 
the unknown — now I shall rest. Take 
my baby, Paul. Care for her — ^see 
how fair and white she is — ^my 
Minna ! But she must pay the debt — 
the sins of the father " 

The voice trailed into silence; 
there was a gasp, a struggle — then a 
great silence. 

Late that night, Paul Warren, 

with the babe in his arms, knelt 
beside the newly made grave near his 
cabin door. 

"The sins of the father," he 
whispered. "God grant that I may 
avert the penalty." 

But his brooding vision pictured 
not the dark-eyed woman who lay so 
quietly beneath the fresh earth, but a 
blue-eyed, fair-haired girl, shrinking 
away from him with reproachful, 
horrified eyes. 

It seemed that the tiny stranger 
brought luck to the new claim. A 
paying streak of silver ore was dis- 
covered soon after her appearance, 
and Paul's fortunes prospered. When 
Minna was old enough for school, 
they moved to the nearest settlement, 
and there, happy in Paul's love and 
protection, she grew into a lovely, 
joyous womanhood. No hint of her 
parentage ever darkened her life. To 
her, Paul was her devoted father, and 
the lonely grave back on the moun- 
tainside held her mother, who had 
wished that her last resting-place 
beneath the pines should be undis- 

And to Paul, Zelma 's child was the 
reason for his living ; the comfort for 
his lonely, misjudged life. Thru all 
the years, he had remained silent, not 
once communicating with the old 

"It is better for them to think I am 
dead," he had decided. When old 
memories, poignant with pain, swept 
over him, he looked at Minna, and 
was comforted, trusting that his 
faithful care of her might atone for 
his brother's sin. Often he pictured 
Beatrice, happy with Jack and the 
little son, of whose birth he had heard, 
and, tho his eyes darkened with pain, 
his heart was serene, knowing that he 
had saved her from sorrow. 

At last the time came when Minna 
was sent East to study, and he waited 
anxiously for news from her. She had 
been so unwilling to go; at the last 
she had clung to him, sobbing. 

He thought of her clinging arms, 
and of her tear-stained face, now, as 
he waited for the mail-carrier, and his 
eyes were very tender. 



"Perhaps I was wrong to let her 
go," he mused; "she is a good girl, 
and so tender-hearted — suppose some- 
thing should happen to make her un- 
happy 'way out there alone ? Suppose 
she should meet some one who knew 
about her mother? But that's im- 
possible — there's not a soul in the 
wide world but myself that knows the 
secret. I've kept my trust, and it isn't 
possible for any complications of that 
kind to hurt her now." 

Not possible ? No mortal can fore- 
see the strange 
and sudden turns 
of Pate's handi- 
work. Twenty 
minutes after 
Paul had made 
his confident 
assertion, he was 
staring, with 
horrified eyes, at 
a letter from 
Minna. The sen- 
tences, written in 
the pretty, girlish 
seemed too 
grotesquely i m - 
probable to be be- 
lieved — and, yet, 
they must be 
true; he was not 
dreaming : 

Dear Daddy: I 
have so much to 
tell you, and I 
must make it very 

short, or I wont catch the mail. There 
was a dreadful wreck of our train, and 
the car I was in got the worst of it. 
Not a person was saved in that car, ex- 
cept myself and a young doctor named 
Robert Warren. He pulled me out thru a 
window, or I should have been burned to 
death. And, daddy, he took me to his 
home, which was not far away, and we 
are very much in love, and are going to 
be married at once, so he can bring me 
back home to you, for I cant go on to 
school now, after such a shock. I know 
you will not object, when you see him — 
they are the loveliest people. His mother 
is the sweetest woman in the world — her 
name is Beatrice. Isn't it strange, their 
name being Warren, just like ours? 

With heaps of love, 



"Going to be married at once," 
Paul groaned, dropping the letter. ' ' I 
must stop it ; I must hurry — suppose I 
should be too late ? I must tell her — 
and Beatrice — that she is his sister! 
There is no other way ! Oh, why did 
I let her go from me ?" 

There was a swift ride to the nearest 
railroad station, a telegram sent in ad- 
vance, a long, nerve-racking ride on a 
fast express, and Paul Warren was 
walking up the wooded path, toward 
the home he had left more than twenty 
years before. Old 
memories swept 
over him, flood- 
ing his heart with 
yearning pain. 
Ah, the dear old 
tlays — the dear 
old h o m e — and - 
the awful errand 
that had brought 
him here! 

"Jack has my 
telegram before 
this, ' ' he thought. 
"I wonder what 
he told them — 
did he confess 
the truth? Poor 
Minna — poor 
Beatrice ! And 
Jack's son will 
suffer^ t is as 
Zelma said, his 
children must 
pay the debt of 
his sins." 
The house was strangely silent 
when he reached it. A young man, 
.scarcely more than a boy, was sitting 
in the library, his head bowed in his 

"You must be my Uncle Paul," he 
said, his voice trembling; "I am so 
glad you have come — perhaps you 
can advise us. It is so terrible — we 
do not know what to do — it seems 
impossible to think clearly yet!" 
' ' Minna ? ' ' questioned Paul, hastily. 
"My mother has her, in her room. 
She will comfort and help her, if any 
one can ; let them alone for a little 
while. You know it is not twenty- 
four hours since your telegram came. 



It was just in time — the minister was 
here. In five minutes more, she would 
have been my wife. Oh, my God — I 
loved her so — I love her now!" 

He threw himself down in an agony 
of tears, and Paul recognized, in this 
stricken lad, all the lovable, reckless 
traits of Jack. He laid a pitying hand 
on the dark head, not trusting his 
voice. At last he said: "And your 

"I quite forgot that you did not 
know, ' ' Robert re- 
plied. "It has all 
been so sudden I 
hardly know what 
I am doing yet. 
My father is 
. dead." 

"Dead! How?" 

"By his own re- 
volver. Your tele- 
gram was given to 
him, just as the 
wedding was to 
begin. Such a 
look as came over 
his face — it was 
terrible. Then he 
seemed to go mad. 
He turned, and 
gave the message 
directly to mother. 
You can imagine 
the effect on us 
all. I think I was 
stunned a t first. 
When I realized 
what was happen- 
ing, the minister 
was helping 
Minna and mother 
out of the room. 

Father was in a chair, wringing his 
hands. Over and over he moaned : 
'The debt, the debt ! She said that our 
children must pay it — ^the debt, the 
debt! Suddenly he rushed into his 
room; in a moment I heard a shot. 
It was all over." 

His voice broke again, and there 
was a long silence in the room. At 
last Robert spoke again. 

"Tell me, uncle, what shall we do? 
How shall we take up the threads of 
life and go on ? Mother understands 

all the past now ; she has pieced it all 
together: your telegram yesterday, 
and what she knew of your going 
away, and Minna's story of her dead 
mother. She has told me how noble 
and good you are. Tell me, now, 
what shall we do ? " 

"I must take Minna back home; 
you must live on liere with your 
mother. In time, my boy, the wound 
will heal. Perhaps you will be glad 
to see Minna as a, loved sister, some 
day; if not, your 
lives must lie far 
apart. We must 
go — at once. But 
first, let me see 
your mother, 

So, as he waited, 
faint and trem- 
bling with emo- 
tion, in the great 
west window of 
the library, she 
came to him. Bea- 
trice, fair - haired 
and sweet - faced, 
as in the olden 
days, so fragile 
and slender in her 
trailing gown of 
black. She held 
out both her 
hands, and, for a 
long moment, they 
looked deep into 
each other's eyes. 

"Forgive me for 
misjudging you, 
long ago," she 
said simply. "You 
were noble and 
self-sacrificing — ^you carried all the 
burden, for my sake. I understand 
now. It is terrible that these children 
must suffer so — terrible that Jack has 
died with this burden of sin on his 
soul; but, thru all this blackness, the 
strength of your devotion will shine 
like a golden thread, lighting the 
dreary days." 

"Some time, when the children's 
wounds have healed, may I retui-n?" 
"Some time — who knows?" she 
answered, a tender mist in her eyes. 

'some time WHO KNOWS?" 





WHEN Jack Elwood left his home 
and his weeping mother, to 
begin a tour of the world, he 
was convinced that his heart was 
broken. He was not looking forward 
to his journey with any enthusiasm — 
it was merely a recourse to distract 
his melancholy thoughts. He felt that 
he should never experience any pleas- 
ure in anything again, and as for 
women — he was done with them. He 
had wasted his love on one of them, so 
now he was ready to condemn them 
all as selfish and calculating. 

As he recalled the incidents that 
followed his return home from college, 
he could entertain nothing but grati- 
tude for his mother's objecting to — 
nay, forbidding, under penalty of dis- 
inheritance — his marriage to her com- 
panion, Susan Lee. Had his mother 
yielded to his pleadings and his de- 
fiance, the discovery of the girl's 
mercenary character would have come 
too late. 

"And she looked so sweet and 
genuine," he murmured, as if excus- 
ing his obtuseness. He took from 
his pocket her farewell note, and 
pondered over it for the hundredth 
time since the evening the servant had 
brought it to him. 

"Dear Jack," he read, below his 
breath, so that the driver in front 


should not hear, "you will never see 
me again. Your mother would disin- 
herit you, and I dont intend to marry 
a poor man." He tore the note into 
bits, which he scattered along the 
road. Then, with a sigh, he leaned 
back in the padded seat of his car, and 
drearily pictured a loveless future. 

It was evening in the city of Tokio. 
Among the trees, in the garden of the 
geisha-houses, lighted lanterns swung 
gently in the breeze, and from the 
flower-bedecked balconies of the tea- 
house came the beat of the lioto, and 
the light twanging of the samisen. 
Little figures, in gorgeous, embroid- 
ered kimonos, flitted gaily about, pos- 
turing, dancing, laughing, and singing 
in sweet, piping voices. Hara, the 
master of the geishas, suddenly ap- 
peared among them. 

"An honorable guest arrives," he 
told them, as he hastened to the gate. 

Jack Elwood entered the garden. 
Hara met him, with a deep obeisance 
and an obsequious indrawing of the 
breath. Then, clapping his hands, he 
summoned a motisme to bring the ex- 
alted stranger a cup of sake, and sent 
another, to command the presence of 
his star geisha, Taku. 

Seated in the garden, with the 
weird thrumming and tinkling affect- 



ing him with a pleasurable sense of 
anticipation, Jack forgot, for the 
moment, to brood over his broken 
heart. Then Taku came, bewitching, 
smiling, saucy. She danced for him, 
her lithe, young body bending and 
swaying, her tiny hands moving in 
odd little gestures, her small head, 
with its decoration of bright-hued 
flowei's, nodding coquettishly. Jack 
watched her with growing delight. 
He thought her the daintiest bit of 
humanity he had ever seen, and, when 
the dance was finished, he tried to 
tell her so. Taku had little difficulty 
in understanding 
him, for she was 
accustomed to com- 
pliments f r m the 
English and Amer- 
ican visitors. She 
modestly concealed 
her face behind her 
fan, while she 
thanked him in 
broken English. 
They had tea to- 
gether, and, under 
the spell of her 
merriment, the last 
vestige of his bitter- 
ness vanished. 

The next evening, 
and the next, foiind 
him in the garden, 
and, each time, he 
returned to his 
hotel more haunted 
by the flower-like 
charm of the little geisha. Then, the 
hours began to drag between evening 
and evening; he wanted Taku every 
minute of the time. Not even the 
vision of his proud mother, nor the 
memory of his first disastrous affair 
of the heart, could stem the tide of his 
thoughts, once they had moved, with 
his desii-es, toward Taku. 

"Suppose she is of a different 
race," he argued to himself, "it makes 
no difference to me, and it's nobody 
else's business. She's adorable — the 
sweetest, gentlest, brightest, most 
fascinating little girl in the world! 
And I'm going to marry her, if Hara 
will give her up." 


The shrewd Hara had been watch- 
ing the infatuation of the handsome, 
young American, and he had decided 
that he would demand a goodly sum, 
should it come to the point where 
Jack would ask to marry the geisha. 
Taku was his best attraction, and, if 
she had kept a cool head and heart, as 
was expected of all geishas, he would 
not have parted with her for any 
amount. But he had noted her eager 
watchfulness, as evening drew nigh, 
and her delight when the honoi-able 
stranger was announced. She was no 
longer heart-whole; her value as a 
geisha was i m - 
paired. So he would 
sell her, if the offer 
was big enough. 

Sooner than he 
expected, the impet- 
uous young Ameri- 
can came to him 
with h i s proposal. 
Hara sinnilated sur- 
prise and reluct- 
ance, and, finally, 
named a large sum 
to release Taku from 
bondage. Jack in- 
stantly closed the 
bargain, and Hara 
trotted away to 
fetch Taku. 

"The august 
foreigner will wed 
me?" she asked, in- 


"Why not?" ex- 
claimed Hara, indignantly. "Have 
not our own lofty ones, with illus- 
trious ancestors, wedded with geishas ? 
Thou art as beautiful and dazzling as 
Amaterasu, and thy ancestors were of 
the honorable nanivrai. Hasten!" he 
urged, throwing back the sliding 
screens, and drawing her into the 
room where Jack was waiting. 

She took a few little steps toward 
Jack, then stopped, overcome with 
embarrassment. He took her hand, 
and removed the fan from her face. 

"Did Hara tell you, little blossom, 
that I want you for my wife?" 

"Yes," she murmured, "and, in all 
things, I will be obedient to my lord." 



Jack laughed. "I dont want 
obedience, Taku; I want love. Can 
you give me that?" 

"Yes," she said softly, nodding 
her charming head. "I will love my 
noble lord for all of this life, and all 
the lives yet to come. ' ' 

A year passed, and Taku was the 
happiest, gayest of little wives and 
mothers. The beautiful home that 
Jack had fitted up for her, had never 
ceased to be a source of interest and 

unusual and precocious child in the 
world. Jack was still in the thrall of 
Japan, and, in the happiness and love 
of Taku, he found life very sweet. 
But it had occurred to him, re- 
peatedly, that he should have in- 
formed his mother of his marriage. 
His conscience had grown especially 
insistent since the baby's arrival. So, 
at last, he decided, boldly, to break 
the news, and to satisfy a feeling of 
homesickness that had been creeping 


wonder. After the simplicity, almost 
bareness, of the tea-house, the beau- 
tiful rooms, with their lacqiier-pan- 
eled Avails, golden matting on the 
flooi-s, covered here and there with 
liandsome rugs, pearl and ivory-inlaid 
furniture, and screens that were 
exquisite works of art, held, for 
her, a constant fascination and en- 

And, then, there was the baby, 
Mino, rosy, dimpled, briglit-eyed. 
Taku idolized him, and had quite con- 
vinced Jack that they had the most 

upon him, by returning to America. 
Not wishing to shock his mother by 
too complete a surprise, he wrote 
briefly, preparing her for his return 
with his wife and child. He could not 
forego the malicious pleasure of 
pandering to the old lady's patrician 
foibles by adding : " I have married a 
lady of ancient lineage. ' ' 

Taku was all in a flutter of excite- 
ment, and misgiving, over the pros- 
pective journey. Suppose the baby 
should be taken ill, suppose the honor- 
able mother-in-law should not "like 



her ! Jack laughed at her fears, and, 
such was her confidence in her big 
husband, that, Avhen the little party 
sailed, she looked forward, with the 
pleasure of a child, to the moment 
when she could place in its grand- 
mother's arms the wonderful baby. 

If Jack, after several weeks of con- 
tact with Occidentals during the 
voyage and the railway jovirney, had 
begun to question the outcome of this 
visit to his old home, he kept his 
doubts to himself. As they neared 
their destination, all his efforts were 
directed toward cheering up Taku, 
for her confidence was fast oozing 
away. The bigness 
of the new country 
oppressed her. She 
clasped little Mino 
tight in her arms, 
and looked, with 
startled eyes, at 
the imposing 
homes they passed, 
as they whirled 
over the road in 
El wood's car, that 
had met them at 
the station. The 
car drew up to the 
house, and a foot- 
man came out to 
assist the travelers. 

"Oh, I am 
afraid!" gasped 
Taku, clinging to 

"Nonsense!" he 
laughed nervously 
about her 
my son." 
ingly to 

Mrs. Ehvood had thought to make 
Jack's homecoming an event, by invit- 
ing a number of his old friends to 
dinner. They were assembled in the 
drawing-room when Jack and Taku 
entered. Hidden, for a moment, as 
Mrs. El wood clasped her boy in her 
arms, the little wife shrank from the 
eyes that met hers, as Jack turned, 
and led her before his mother. 

He removed the cape and hood, that 
covered Taku from head to foot. As 

putting an arm 
'Here, Jenkins, you carry 
' Then, whispering reassur- 
Taku, he led her into the 

the picturesque little figure was dis- 
closed, a look of horror sprang to the 
mother's eyes. 

"Surely, siirely," she stammered, 
"this is not .your wife!" 

"Yes, mother," answered Jack, 
firmly, defying the disapproving eyes 
of the guests, "this is my wife, and" 
— indicating the baby in the foot- 
man's arms — "tliis is my child." 

Mrs. Elwood gave tiie merest glance 
in the direction of the infant, and 
Taku, her heart freezing within her, 
clung to Jack, appealingly. 

"Your wife will, probably, like to 
go to her room immediately," sug- 
gested Mrs. El- 
wood, coldly. 

"Yes, yes!" 
assented Taku, 
eagerly, trembling 
at the unfriendly 
glances bent upon 

Alone in her 
r o m — a great, 
hostile room it 
seemed to her — 
she laid the 
slighted Mino 
upon the bed, and 
knelt beside him. 

"They would 
not deign to look 
at the honorable 
'baby - san ! " she 
whispered bitter- 
ly. "These lofty 
ones may despise 
me — that I understand, for they are 
proud, and I was but a geisha. But 
the honorable child is the son of the 
esteemed Mr. Elwood, and they should 
have done him honor!" 

She would not go down to dinner 
with Jack ; she remained in her room 
all evening, and fretted and brooded 
over her insignificance in the eyes of 
the "lofty ones" downstairs. 

As the days went by, poor little 
Taku was left much to herself. Her 
mother-in-law ignored her and little 
Mino completely, while, seeminglj^, 
exerting herself to draw Jack away 
from his wife. Jack was, at first, very 
tender and considerate, and assured 




Taku that his mother and friends 
would accept his wife as soon as they 
had become accustomed to the idea of 
associating with one of her race. But, 
probably unremarked by himself, he 
left her more and more to herself, and 
became absorbed in the pastimes from 
which she was shut out. 

"Perhaps if I wear clothes like 
theirs, ' ' she suggested, piteously, ' ' the 
exalted ones will not despise me so. ' ' 

"A good idea!" responded her hus- 

evening's merrymaking, she robed 
herself in her flowered kimono, 
gathered together her store of money 
and jewels, strapped the baby on her 
back, and left, on the desk in her 
room, these few words: 

Honored Hu.sband: I gfi back to my 
people. It was all a mistake. Please 
forget. Taku. 

Then she went softly down the car- 
peted stairs, and out into the night. 


band. "Get yourself some American 

However, the new apparel failed to 
work the expected change, and lit'tle 
Taku was utterly discouraged and 
unhapp.y. Her face grew pale and 
thin, and the American clothes ill 
suited her type of exotic beauty. The 
situation, at last, became unbearable, 
for she felt that Avith the eclipse of 
her charms had disappeared her hus- 
band's love. So, one night, when he 
had gone with a gay party, for an 

The next morning, when her flight 
was discovered, Mrs. Elwood made no 
attempt to conceal her relief. Jack, 
after the flrst shock and anxiety, took 
a philosophical view of the occurrence. 
It was, probably, the best way out of 
it. He had been pulled two ways, in 
trying to please his mother, at the 
same time indulging his own pleasure- 
loving nature, and in making dutiful 
attempts to give some of his time to 
Taku. Now he would be free — and 
back in Japan, well provided for by 





his foresight, she would be in a har- 
monious environment, and would re- 
cover her looks and her happy disposi- 
tion. So, comfortably rocking his 
conscience to sleep, he plunged into 
wilder gaieties. 

But there is nothing more treacher- 
ous than a dormant conscience. It 
bides its time, and, when its possessor 
is most wretched, and is savoring the 
unpalatable facts of boredom and 
discontent, it springs up broad awake, 
and stabs and stabs. So Jack Elwood 
found. He had exhausted every phase 
of dissipation, and, now that the 
superficial and vicious pleasures of 
life palled, his con- 
science had a trick 
of unexpectedly 
bringing before 
him a vision of the 
neglected Taku 
and the honorable 
baby-san. After a 
night at the card- 
table, he wandered 
into the garden, in 
the early dawn. A 
slight breeze 
rippled over the 
grass and thru the 
trees. With his 
head buzzing 
from sleeplessness, 
he seemed to hear 
the tinkre of wind- 
bells. Then he 
could have sworn 

that the thrumming of the koto and 
the twanging of the samisen were in 
his ears, and that from the shadows of 
a feathery fir-tree, a little figure, in a 
gorgeous kimono, advanced toward 
him. He rose, with outstretched 
arms. " Taku !" he cried. But there 
was nothing there but the drifting 
mist of dawn and the gentle breeze 
rippling by. Dazed, he hurried to the 
house. He called up one of the 
servants, and ordered him to pack, 
immediately, sufficient clothing for a 
long journey. The thrall of the 
"Flowery Kingdom" was upon him 
again, and the charm of his little 
Taku was luring him back to her. 


In her beautiful home in Tokio, a 
sad little mother sat, with her baby 
in her arms. Now and then she 
picked up her samisen, and, touching 
the strings, sang to him a little song 
of her own composing. It told of one 
who had ceased to love her, but whom 
she would love thru this life and all 
the lives to come. The wonderful 
baby, Mino, gurgled in delight, and 
Taku smiled, fondly, into his twink- 
ling, black eyes. The curtains in the 
doorway parted, and Jack looked in. 
Taku still crooned to the baby, not 
hearing the quiet step behind her. 
Then, Jack sank to his knees, at her 
side. Startled, she 
drew away from 
him, and hard 
lines appeared in 
her sufiiering little 

' 'Taku !" he 
cried, penitently, 
' ' I have come back 
to you. I am so 
sorry your heart 
was wounded. I 
have been very un- 
happy, and I want 
you and Mino to 
love me again!" 

"Until some 
lofty ones again 
despise us ? ' ' 
asked Taku, indig- 

"If the lofty 
ones despise you, they must despise 
me, too," he answered, "for I am 
going to stay right here with you — 
if you will let me." 

Such humility from her husband 
melted little Taku's anger. "Oh, my 
august lord!" she exclaimed. "If you 
may! Did not my vows bind me to 
obedience and devotion for all of this 

He took her in his arms, and 
pressed her to his heart. 

"For all of this life?" he asked. 
"And all the lives to come," she 
answered, solemnly. 

"Yes, all the lives to come," he 
echoed, fervently. 

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And they shall prosper with tlie years ! 







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From Over the Sea 


The' scenes av me choildhood, th' cot I was born in. 
Came forninst me this night ; faith, I knov 'twas no drame, 

An' me hoart sang f r Joy whin, wldout an» ;/ warnin', . 
Me darlint, ould mother to mate me she ime. 

She sthepped from tb' doorway, her smile soft and tinder. 
As it was on the day we said good-by in tears ; 

An' I saw, whin I looked in th' ould cabin winder. 
Th' light that's been bumin' for me all these years. 

I called her swate name — fast th' glad tears were flowln', 
I stretched forth a hand to th' vanishin' scene ! 

Her eyes caressed mine — it was me she was knowin' — 
She smiled — then was gone from th' dear picthur' screen ! 




Cold, did you say, and Jack Frost coming? 
1 know the way where bees are humming. 
Let's watch the flowers in beauty springing. 
Or birds thru bowers their courses winging. 

Drear, did you say, with snowflakes falling? 
Let's go and play the quails are calling. 
I know a place where rivers glisten. 
And summer sings, if you but listen. 

Sad, did you say, and winter-weary? 
I know the way where all is cheery ; 
Where picture films can make .vou Jolly 
And picture-play ends melancholy. 


THE face of each Mian in the card- 
room stood out sharply in the 
brilliant light from clusters of 
electric bulbs on the side walls. 

At the center table sat the Honor- 
able James Oakley and Vincent 
Black, leaders of the smartest coterie 
in the Cocoa Tree Club, which, for a 
century, had been the most exclusive 
in London's West End. At the mas- 
sive mahogany table, covered with 
soft, green felt, sat two other men, 
engaged in the after-theater game of 
whist with Oakley and Black. 

"Shall I play, partner?" asked 
Vincent Black, a tall, rather raw- 
boned Englishman, so accustomed to 
formal clothes that he would have 
looked ridiculous in a business suit. 

"Pray do," James Oakley replied 
mechanically, his mild, blue eyes 
acquiring an intense look as he 
glanced at the fellow on his right, a 
loud-talking chap who had recently 
been admitted to the Cocoa Tree 
because of his family connections. 

As Oakley played, his lithe, slight 
body became tense with interest, and 
several times he passed his hand over 
his face nervously, and toyed with a 
plain gold c-est ring on his little 
finger as he watched, narrowly, the 
uncouth player on his right. 


Suddenly, as the man took a trick 
unfairly, James Oakley threw his 
remaining cards face up on the table, 
and pushed back his chair, his cheeks 
drawn and white. 

"I prefer not to play with a 
cheat!" he exclaimed, with an even- 
ness of temper and display of self- 
control which his father had passed 
on to him from a long line of trained 

The man at his right grew very 
red. ' ' You 're a cheat, yourself ! ' ' he 
cried, rising to his legs, a little 
unsteady from over-indulgence in 

Oakley's eyes snapped; he sprang 
at the man's throat, slapped his 
l^ulpy, red face with his open hand, 
and hurled him violently backward. 
The card-cheat swayed, stumbled, fell 
across a chair, and toppled, a 
whirling mass of arms and legs, down 
the long, polished stairway leading to 
a dining-room on the floor below. 

Oakley, paralyzed with sudden 
fear, rushed down the steps just as 
the cheat's head crashed against the 
newel-post. The body quivered con- 
vulsively, and settled down in a 

Vincent Black pushed his friend, , 
Oakley, away from the body, and felt, . 




fumblingly, thru the clothes for a 

' ' Dead ! " he cried, turning to Oak- 
ley, who stood, with slack hands, 
looking on, his eyes vivid with pain. 

"Come — let's get out of this!" ex- 
claimed one of the older members, who 
had rushed down to the excited group 
about the body. "You'll not run the 
chance of imprisonment for this 
worthless fellow. Black!" he mo- 
tioned quickly to Oakley 's companion, 
"as quick as you can. Let's get him 
out of here. ' ' 

Together they rushed Oakley to the 

violence, but, finally, he came to look 
upon the affair as an unavoidable 
accident. Purposely, he did not read 
the London papers, and, for over a 
month, he lived the life of a modest 
gentleman of leisure in Paris, care- 
fully avoiding those popular cafes 
where he might meet traveling Eng- 

One day he picked up a French 
newspaper, and read the startling 
news that the victim of an unpro- 
voked assault in a London club was 
dying in a hospital; his life had 
lingered all these weeks. But, as for 


check-room, bundled him into his 
top-coat, and pushed his silk hat on 
his head. Then Black took him alone 
in a cab to the nearest railwa.y station. 

"A first-class ticket to Paris," he 
requested of the ticket-seller, and 
before Oakley fully realized what had 
happened, he found himself alone in 
a compartment of a train bound for 
Paris, Black's farewell words echoing 
in his ears: "Dont come back! Live 
in Prance! I'll stay here and 
straighten things out for you. We'll 
meet again some day, old man. Take 
good care of yourself, and forget this 
accident. ' ' 

For weeks James Oakley could not 
forget the scene in the club. His 
breeding had taught him to dislike 

Oakley, he hesitated no longer; he 
impulsively joined the French army, 
and immediately lost his identity in 
the baggy flannel uniform of red and 
blue with which he was furnished. 

He was sent to the Soudan in a 
transport with a detaehiiient under 
Colonel de Belleehosse, and idled for 
months in barracks before getting 
into an active engagement. Mean- 
while, he perfected his French, be- 
came proficient at fencing, and gained 
popularity among the non-commis- 
sioned officers, working iip to the 
position of sergeant by excelling at 

Then, one day, his company was 
ordered to the frontier, where trouble 
awaited the French. On the morning 



following their arrival, Colonel de 
Belleehosse's detachment engaged in 
a sharp preliminary skirmish, and 
Oakley, having little to live for, 
threw himself headlong into the 
battle with that perfect disregard of 
caution which has distinguished, and 
saved the life of, many a great army 

Colonel de Bellechosse, mounted on 
a fiery Arabian horse, directed the 
encounter from a position well in the 
rear, until, irritated by the tricky 
methods of the savage enemy, he led a 
bold charge 
against them in 
person. Oakley, 
his men scattered, 
followed across 
the field, close be- 
hind his Colonel, 
leaping ahead of 
the less zealous 
Frenchmen, and, 
finally, finding 
himself cut off 
from there- 
mainder of his 
company, with a 
handful at the 
Colonel 's side. 
He had emptied 
his gun, and had 
no time to reload ; 
the wily natives 
were rushing the 
Colonel, slashing 
with long, curved 
s w r d s at the 

Colonel's small bodyguard, and try- 
ing to get at the French Ic^ader. The 
Colonel's horse went down. Oakley 
charged the enemy with his bayonet ; 
all the savage that had lingered be- 
neath his calm, cultivated exterior 
came to the surface, and he fought 
furiously, recklessly, felling a dozen 
men, and reaching the Colonel's side 
just in time to run thru, with his 
bayonet, a villainous, big negro 
leveling an old-fashioned pistol at the 
army officer. 

The Colonel's detachment rallied, 
and soon swept to his aid. The 
natives retreated. Colonel de Belle- 
chosse, in the flush of victory, found 


time to clasp Oakley's hand in the 
open field, and thank him, before 
the regiment, for his distinguished 

When the company had returned to 
camp. Colonel de Bellechosse sent for 
Oakley, who limped, painfully, to the 
executive tent, bearing a dozen band- 
ages, and received, gratefully, the 
profuse thanks of the Frenchman. 

"I had my eye on you thru the 
smoke," exclaimed the Colonel. "Not 
many men fight as you did. I have 
saved myself from many narrow 
squeezes, but you 
saved me today." 
The Colonel 
paused, and sur- 
veyed Oakley 
thoughtfully. Fi- 
nally he con- 
tinued: "The 
trouble here will 
soon be over. We 
will be ordered 
back to barracks 
in Paris within a 
week. You wont 
enjoy life in bar- 
racks as an officer 
without a com- 
mission ; you 
w o n t have the 
opportunity to 
mingle with the 
kind of people to 
which I can see 
you are accus- 
tomed. I need a 
secretary — if you like, I will appoint 

"I should appreciate it very 
much," answered Oakley, promptly. 

Within a week the troops were 
back in Paris, and, in his new posi- 
tion, the Britisher found many ad- 
vantages. He was thrown into the 
company of scintillating Frenchmen, 
and, gradually, took on most of the 
Colonel's social duties. 

At a splendid military ball, he met, 
for the first time, the Colonel's 
daughter, Louise, and was attracted 
by her princessly bearing and pi- 
quant, French manner more certainly 
than he had ever been attracted to 




any other woman. He danced with 
her, and flattered himself that he had 
succeeded in interesting the girl. 

After the ball, Colonel de Belle- 
chosse happened to mention to 
Oakley, jn a reflective mood, that 
Lieutenant de Berg, of a prominent 
military family, was a suitor for 
Louise's hand, and that he had high 
hopes for the match. 

This confidence did not deter Oak- 

Oakley found himself seated beside 
Louise in a corner of the garden, lit 
with thousands of soft electric bulbs. 
Both were oblivious to the gay throng 
near them. Oakley looked into the 
girl's eyes, and saw in them a new 
light. Their friendship had suddenly 
blossomed into intimacy, or some- 
thing better, he thought. 

"I wish I had been boi-n a French- 
man," Oakley said slowly. "I've 


ley, however, from improving his 
acquaintance with Louise. He found 
many excuses which took him to his 
superior oiYieer's home, and, within a 
few months, he was invited to in- 
formal dinners by the Colonel, and 
made much of in private, in spite 
of the fact that he was a non- 
commissioned officer. 

Oakley missed no social function at 
which Louise was likely to be present. 
His fascination finally became a pas- 
sion. One summer night, at a splendid 
formal dance in the Colonel's house, 

become a Frenchman already — at 

"And isn't the heart most im- 
portant of all?" she asked softly, 
shyly, her eyes cast down. 

"Yes; it is with me. At heart I 
am French, and it is because of you." 

"Because of me? But I dont 
understand!" she bi-eathed quickly, 
raising her glowing eyes to his. 

"Yes," he said, leaning impulsively 
toward her, and wishing they were 
really alone in the world; "you have 
made me feel that I want to be truly 



French, so you will understand me 
fully. I want to be like — well, like 
what you want me to be." His tone 
was very boyish, and he looked at her 
with serious, big eyes. 

"Oh," she cried, with a thrill, "I 
like you because you are English." 

' ' Oh, if I were only French I could 
tell you why I like yoii," he cried. 
"If I were French I would know 
how to make love better than the 

standing near them, near enough to 
have overheard their words. As 
Oakley's eyes met his, the French- 
man's white face expressed smoulder- 
ing rage. He turned abruptly, his 
hand instinctively reaching toward 
his sword. 

"But, Louise, dear, how about de 
Berg?" breathed Oakley, turning 
back to the girl, who sat with lips 
musingly open. 


blunt, British way. Listen, Louise ; I 
love you because you are yourself," 
he finished fervently. 

A faint flush burned in her cheeks ; 
she clasped her hands, and drew a 
sharp breath. "I, too, like you for 
the same reason," she admitted, at 

Oakley quivered with emotion. He 
reached out to take her hand, sud- 
denly recollected that he was in plain 
sight of onlookers, and drew back 
sharply, looking about him anxiously. 
A tall, slim, young French officer was 

She quivered with his first term of 
endearment, and her eyes fluttered 
up to his. "He is papa's choice; not 
my own," she murmured lnusicallJ^ 

"Ah, my darling Louise! If I 
could only tell you how much I love 
you!" Oakley was wild to catch her 
hands in his, to hug her close to him. 

"You dont have to, dear," she 
said softly; "I can read it in your 

"And it is repeated in yours, 
sweetest little girl in the " Oak- 
ley's sentence was cut short by the 




clanking arrival of Colonel de Belle- 
chosse, who asked the pleasure of a 
dance with his daughter, in courtly 

Oakley, his whole being aflame 
with love, darted down a path, 
determined to take a long walk, to 
dream of his love and Louise. 

As he stepped into a deserted, rose- 
covered cross-path, Lieutenant de 
Berg slipped silently to his side, 
and remarked, in a voice of re- 
strained rage: "I will walk with you, 

Oakley and de Berg walked down 
the path together. The moment they 

"My seconds will wait upon yours, 
monsieur, at the Hotel de Triomphe, 
tomorrow at nine. They can arrange 
all details." Lieutenant de Berg 
handed Oakley a crisp card that 
glistened white in the street light, and 
turned down a winding boulevard. 

Oakley walked straight on, alone. 
Half an hour before, he had been 
radiantly, exuberantly hopeful be- 
cause Louise returned his love. Now, 
he was in despair. It seemed to him 
that love was not the exclusive affair 
of two people in Prance. Besides the 
Lieutenant's opposition, Oakley was 
a non-commissioned officer, a fugitive 


were out of earshot, the superior 
officer burst out: "I overheard to- 
night — about Louise. Perhaps you 
dont understand French etiquette — I 
will teach you. Will you fight with 
the sword or the pistol?" 

In a flash, Oakley understood. It 
was a challenge. 

' ' I shall waive my rank, ' ' continued 
the Lieutenant, excitedly. "Either I 
withdraw from the field, or you. 
Which weapon do you prefer?" 

"Oh," exclaimed Oakley, "if you 
demand blood, let it be blood. Your 
choice of weapons is my choice." 
Tho uneasj' at the thought of a duel, 
Oakley was now thoroly angry with 
the Frenchman, who could not win a 
girl's heart, but could gain only her 
father's approval. 

from his own country, with disgrace 
hanging over his head, and, without a 
fortune and standing, he could never 
expect the Colonel to accept him as 
a sori-in-law, even if Louise loved 

Seized with despair, he sank down 
in a chair at a sidewalk cafe fre- 
quented by Englishmen, and ordered 
brandv. He had not been so indis- 
creet as to show himself at such a 
popular place since leaving London, 
but now he thought nothing of tliat, 
and sat, in his French uniform, 
slumped over his glass of liquor, 
thinking dismally of the dawn. 

The fixed gaze of a gentleman 
sitting at a table opposite finally 
caused Oakley to look up. He found 
himself staring into the wondering 



eyes of his old comrade, Vincent 
Black, who had helped him out of 

With outstretched hands, Oakley 
rushed toward him, repeating, un- 
consciously, in French: "Monsieur 
Black, Monsieur Black! of all 

"I thought it was you," cried 
Black, pressing his hand firmly, "but 
I couldn't be sure. That uniform, 
that coat of tan. Why, you even 
talk French." 

The reunited friends sat until 
almost morning, talking excitedly of 
their experiences since parting. And, 
with the dawn. Black slapped Oakley 
heartily on the shoulder, crying: "A 
man who's to fight a duel must be 
fresh. I'll see de Berg's seconds at 
the hotel this morning, and, as for 
you, go to sleep." 

The duel was arranged to take 
place at sunrise on the following day, 
in a lonely field on the outskirts of 
town — a field partly hidden from the 
road by a row of pines. 

Pistols had been decided upon, and 
Vincent Black, after examining the 
arms provided by de Berg's seconds, 
gave the word that his man was 

The duellists met in the center of 
the vacant field, their backs to one 
another. A gentleman in severe 
black, with the manner of an under- 
taker, cried: " One-two- three- four ! " 
and the opponents wheeled, and fired 
upon each other with almost a single 
report of the pistols. 

An instant later, de Berg's right 
arm fell to his side, shattered, and his 
weapon, belching smoke, dropped to 
the grass. 

The duel was over. Oakley had 

A pair of men in uniform were 
spied by one of the seconds, skulking 
along the road at that moment. 

"You had better not go back to 
barracks," cried de Berg, accepting 
his defeat like a gentleman, and 
hardly wincing as the doctor bound 
the tiny hole in his fractured arm. 
"The regiment will hear of this, and 
you will be court-martialed for breach 

of discipline for duelling with a 
superior oflScer. It's for your good 
I'm suggesting it." 

"Yes, yes!" Oakley breathed, im- 
petuously, "but I must see Louise 

He was whisked from the field by 
Black as rapidly as he had been 
packed off to Paris the night of the 
trouble at the club. 

Black insisted on Oakley's return 
to London at once. He argued that 
he could resume his old life, and that 
his father was failing in health. He 
assured him again and again, too, 
that the club members had silenced 
the gambling scandal, and that the 
card-cheat had finally recovered. 

But Oakley broke from him and 
rushed boldly to the Colonel's house, 
tho he was unaccustomed to call so 
early, even in his secretarial capacity. 

He found Louise alone in the 
morning-room, having just finished 

"Louise, my darling!" he cried, 
drawing up a low settee, and sit- 
ting beside her, clasping her hands, 
"I have won from de Berg! — this 
morning only. Ah, precious, the sun 
shines sweet on victories like mine. I 
am free to tell you now how much I 
love you, adore you, worship you, my 
darling." He talked rapidly at first, 
in eagerness, finally lingering over 
the last words. 

She smoothed back his damp hair 
dreamily, drinking deep of his ardent 

"And I, too, love you, mon cher, 
mon petit!" she cried, timidly bury- 
ing her head on his shoulder. 

He caught her in his arms, and 
hugged her close, straining her to 
him, as he had dreamed of doing for 
weeks past. 

"I love you madly, my darling. I 
would risk anything — a hundred 
lieutenants — to tell you how sweet 
and precious you are to me." He 
raised her mouth, and kist her 
tremulous lips. 

The silence of love ensued. 

Suddenly a sharp ejaculation sur- 
prised the pair. They sprang to their 
feet and faced Colonel de Bellechosse, 



purple with rage. He stared steadily, 
scornfully at them, and then, sud- 
denly, in his sternest military manner, 
ordered Oakley to return to barracks, 
and report at his quarters in half an 

Oakley withdrew without a word, 
returning to barracks like a faithful 
soldier, and refusing to recall Lieu- 
tenant de Berg's and Black's advice 
to flee and avoid consequences. 

It is the recommendation of the court 
that James Oakley be sentenced to five 
years' imprisonment for breach of disci- 
pline in fighting a duel with a superior 

V. De Forest, 

Presiding Ofllcer. 

Oakley listened dumbly as the 
sentence was pronounced, realizing 
that Colonel de Bellechosse's dis- 
covery in the morning-room had a 


Instead of seeing Oakley when he 
appeared at his office, the Colonel 
ordered his arrest, and Oakley was 
dragged to the military jail thru the 
barracks square, where his comrades 
were idling. 

That afternoon he was court-mar- 
tialed on the evidence of two common 
soldiers who had witnessed the duel 
from the road. 

The decision of the military referee 

great deal to do with the severity of 
the sentence. 

Probably he could have reduced 
the term if he had been willing to 
admit the cause of his duel, but on 
that subject his lips remained closed. 

While in prison he learnt from 
Black, who was allowed to visit him 
occasionally, that Lieutenant de Berg 
had been transferred to another post, 
by way of reprimand. 

A month later, Black came to the 



prison with glowing face, and cried, 
the moment he saw Oakley: "I've 
managed to get de Berg to write a 
letter. I think I shall succeed in 
having you released. " He showed the 
following document with pride: "I 
hereby testify that James Oakley 
was in no manner responsible for 
the duel. It was entirely at my 
instigation. Signed, Lieutenant de 

Again the gallant French officer 
had shown that he was a gentleman, 
and, with this letter, and a little polit- 
ical pressure which Black brought 
to bear, Oakley was finally released. 

On the very day that he came from 
prison. Black took him to the office of 
a Parisian lawyer, who acquainted 
him with the fact that he was heir to 
a large estate left by his father, and 
that he could now claim the title of 
Lord Fernborough; 

The Englishman, overcome by the 
sudden turn in his affairs, went at 
once to the office of Colonel de Belle- 
chosse, and formally asked for his 
daughter's hand.. The Colonel, on 
whose sympathies Black had been 
working during Oakley's imprison- 
ment, refused to discuss the matter, 
but gave his permission for Oakley 
to call on Louise and tell her of his 

Louise sat on the lawn as her father 
and her lover approached. She ran 
to the arms of Oakley in spite of the 
Colonel's flaming eye. 
, "I must take Louise back to Eng- 
land with me!" cried Oakley, in a 
surge of emotion. 

"I will not consent — I will not 
consent!" the Colonel raged, striding 
up and down tlie lawn with hands 
clasped tightly "behind his back.' 

"But, papa," pleaded Louise, re- 
moving her arms from Oakley, to 
throw them about her father, "you 
only wanted me to marry Lieutenant 
de Berg because he had prospects. 
James," and she pronounced the 
name so quaintly that Oakley wanted 
to hug her again on the spot — "has 
inherited a large estate. Dont you 
remember the days of the Soudan? 
You've told me so often of how he 
saved your life. That was what first 
made me love him, even before I saw 
him." She looked shyly toward 
Oakley, who stepped to her side and 
pressed her hand. 

Colonel de Bellechosse looked down 
into his daughter's pleading face. 

"That is not the only occasion on 
which Sergeant Oakley was brave," 
he said slowly, his face very red. "He 
fought a duel for you, you must 
remember." It was evident that the 
mention of Oakley's estate had altered 
the old man's decision, and that he 
was glad to be reminded of the 
Englishman's bravery. 

"Then you give your consent?" 
cried Louise, returning the pressure 
of Oakley's hand. 

"With all my heart," answered 
the Frenchman, courteously, saluting 
Louise on the forehead, and he stood 
wiping the tears from his stern, old 
face as Louise and Oakley, unabashed, 
exchanged a long, sweet kiss of success 
before him. 


The Photoplayeis 

Tliey give tbe wide world pleasure, 
Give it freely, without measure, 

Into lives all sad and weary, 
Into places dark and dreary 

They bring cheer. 

Oft, you know, the world goes badly. 
And some heart is aching sadly 

Every day. 
Watching them, the troubles vanish. 
With their smiles they quickly banish 

Them away. 

Sometimes, when our fun they're making, 
Their own hearts are almost breaking 

Down with rare. 
But we never know their sadness, 
They have only smiles and gladness 

For us here. 

And we hope that in life's gloaming, 
When to each there comes the closing 

Of the show, 
All the lives that they have brightened. 
All the weary ways they've lightened. 

They may know. 

LONG before this story has point or 
place of beginning, a gj'psy car- 
avan made its jolting way along 
a country road in high summer. 
Beneath one of the carts was slung a 
sort of hammock, often filled with 
pots and pans, now bellying with a 
soft lump of a sleeping child — a little 
girl in her third summer. 

The end of the hammock unfast- 
ened, and the child slid softly onto the 
road. The caravan jolted on, over a 
hill ; the child still slept. 

Presently she awoke in the sun, and 
set up a soft, calling cry, wliich the 
wind, in the whispering ashes, took 
up, and carried over the hollow. 

The child's call traveled as far as 
two horsemen in the fashionable red- 
ingotes and soft, spurred boots of 
gentlemen. The elder, a man in his 
prime, with clear-cut Roman features 
under quick, gray eyes, turned his 
horse's head toward the call. The 
child heard the click and chink of 
hoofs against stones, and was still. 

The riders neared her standing in 
the hollow, like a speck in the bottom 
of a bowl. The younger dismounted 
and pulled her pudgy fists away from 
her eyes. 

It was then that the gray-eyed rider 
noted two coal-black, fathomless eyes, 
so big with tears and wonderment 
that they seemed half a face, staring 
up at him. At his gesture, his com- 
panion swung the child across his 
saddlebow:' a child, and tears and 
wonder were amusing things in the 
Avorld of these two. The younger 
laughed merrily; the elder permitted 
a smile to cross his small, even teeth. 

They turned, and rode back, leav- 
ing the country road as blank and 
sightless a story as of an hour ago. 

"It is given to me, Alexander 
Ogilvy, the schoolmaster of Glen 
Inharity, to take iip this story and 
carry it to an ending. 

' ' It was on a warm autumn Sunday 
that the little minister preached his 
first sermon, and intoned the Para- 
phrases, for the congregation of the 
Auld Licht Church. Little was 
known of Gavin Dishart and his 
mother, Margaret, before their com- 
ing to Thrums, save that he was 
favorably recommended by the Uni- 
versity of Edinburgh, and could 
preach you straight in the eyes, 
without notes. 




"A stern sect were the Auld Lichts, 
and, had it not been that Mr. Carfrae, 
the retiring minister, was grown very 
frail, with a habit of shaking as he 
walked, as if his feet were striking 
against stones, they never would have 
called the little minister to his first 

"After the service, when Mr. Car- 
frae stood shaking hands with the 
Auld Lichts, by Gavin's side, he 
accompanied him 
to the white 
manse house on 
the hill. 

"'May you 
never lose sight 
of God, Mr. Dis- 
hart,' he said, in 
the parlor. 'It is 
like a dream. 
Only yesterday I 
was the young 
minister, Mr. 
Dishart, and to- 
morrow you will 
be the old one 
bidding good-by 
to your succes- 
sor. And,' he 
added hastily, 
'how do you like 

"'They told 
me in Glasgow,' 
said Gavin, hesi- 
tating, 'that I 
had received a 
call from the 
mouth of hell. ' 

' ' ' Cruel words, 
Mr. Dishart, for 

our weavers are passionately religious, 
yet seltloin more than a day's work in 
advance of food. Tho you may have 
thought the place quiet today, there 
was an ugl.y outbreak two months ago 
— the weavers turning on the manu- 
facturers for reducing the price of the 
wel) — and the square filled with 
soldiers, called from Tilliedrum. The 
ringleadei-s were seized and sentenced 
to jail. Ever since then a watch by 
night has been kept on every road 
that leads to Thriims. The signal 
that soldiers are coming is to be the 


blowing of a horn. If you ever hear 
that horn, Mr. Dishart, I implore you 
to hasten to the square. ' 

"Mr. Cai'frae, once so brave a 
figure, tottered as he rose to go. 

" 'I begin,' Gavin said, as they 
were parting, ' where you left off. My 
prayer is that I may walk in your 
ways. ' 

"A week passed — days in which 
the new Auld Licht minister was seen 
on his rounds in 
the town, a n d 
then a second 
Sunday came for 
him to test all his 

"It seems that 
Jo Cruickshanks, 
the atheist, had 
got Rob Dow, the 
big poacher, 
cursing, roaring 
drunk, and had 
escorted him to 
the Auld Licht 

"Gavin Dis- 
hart stopped his 
sermon at the 
sight of him. 
' Come forward, ' 
he said to -Rob. 

' ' Rob gripped 
the pew to keep 
h i 111 s e 1 f from 

"■'Come for- 
ward!' the little 
nunister cried, 
'you hulking man 
of sin; sit down 
on the stair and attend to me, or I'll 
step down from the pulpit and run 
you out of the house of God.' 

"And Rob did, believing him a 
giant stepped out of the Bible. 

"And now, on the heels of this 
conversion, came the fateful night of 
the 17th of October, and with it the 
strange woman. 

"Family worship at the manse was 
over, and Gavin was kissing Margaret 
good-night, when they heard a timid 
knocking. He opened it, to find the 
town policeman staring at him, 



" 'You're to go to Rob Dow's 
house,' he said, 'and if you're no wi' 
him by ten o'clock, he's to break out 
again. ' 

"Gavin knew what this meant — ^he 
had feared it — and a brisk walk 
brought him to Rob Dow's door. 

"Gavin Avent in by the light of a 
tree-trunk roaring in tlie fireplace. 
"When Rob saw him, he groaned 
relief and left his loom. He had been 
weaving, his teeth clinched, his eyes 
on fire, for seven hours. 

' ' Both fell upon their knees. And, 
wlien they had 
finished, Rob 
said: 'I'll drown 
mysel' in the 
dam rather than 
let the d r i n k 
master me. ' 
Gavin took his 
hand, and was 

"Now, thei'e is 
a path to Cad- 
dam called Win- 
iL y g h o u 1 , a 
straight road in 
summer, but 
given over to 
leaves and pools 
at the end of the 
year. The little 
minister took this 
path, for the 
mysteiy of the 
woods by moon- 
light thrilled him. Hard by, on a 
bare hill, was the place where the 
wild Lindsays, the g.ypsy family, 
made their encampment. 

"But Gavin thought not of them, 
with his fingers close around his 
stout staff. It was a faint, high sound, 
as of a woman singing, that perplexed 

"Presently it rose, sweet and clear, 
from out of Windyglioul. The singer 
was not fifty yards away, sometimes 
singing gleefully, and letting her 
body sway lightly as she came dancing 
up the path. 

"To Gavin, dancing, and singing 
unholy music, were devices of the 
devil, and he put out his arm to 


pronounce sentence upon her. But 
she passed quickly by — he saw only a 
short, green skirt, the flash of bare 
feet, and a twig of rowan berries in 
her black hair. 

" 'Woman!' he called sternly after 

' ' She turned, and laughed with her 
shoulders, and seemed to beckon him 
on and mock him, but, on his taking to 
running after her, she sang the more 
gleefully, and slid into the thickness 
of the trees. 
"And then, suddenly, he lost the 
power to move. 
He had heard a 
hoi'n — the signal 
that soldiers were 
coming. Thrice it 
sounded, each 
time striking him 
to the heart. 

"He took to 
running blindly 
toward Thrums, 
the admonition 
of Mr. Carfrae 
about the soldiers 
dancing in his 
brain and tug- 
ging at his wind. 
"As Gavin 
reached the 
schoolwynd, the 
town drum be- 
gan to beat. A 
weaver whom he 
tried to stop 
struck hira savagely and sped past to 
the square. Gavin followed him. 

"Women were screaming from 
Avindows, or crying softly, and on 
the steps of the town-house about 
fifty weavers were gathered, many of 
them scantily clad, but all armed with 
pikes and staves. An old, worn-out 
soldier was adjuring them. 

"Gavin ran up the steps, and, in a 
moment, they had become a pulpit. 

" 'Dinna dare to interfere, Mr. 
Dishart,' shrilled the old soldier. 

"Gavin cast his eyes over the 
armed throng, and oi'dered: "Rob 
Dow, William Carmichael, Thomas 
Whamond, William Munn, Henders 
Ilaggart, step forward.' 



"These were all Auld Liehts, and, 
when they found that the minister 
would not take his eyes off them, they 
all obeyed. 

"Then the minister, who was shak- 
ing with excitement, tho he did not 
know it, stretched forth his arms for 

" '0! Thou who art the Lord of 

be catehed like a mouse in a trap.' 
She mounted the steps. 

" 'The sojers are coming,' she 
warned, ' f rae the Tilliedrum road. ' 

' ' ' Lay down your weapons, ' Gavin 
cried, but his power had gone. 

" 'The gypsy spoke true,' they 
shouted ; ' dinna heed the minister. ' 

" 'Keep thegither and follow me,' 


hosts,' he prayed, 'we are in Thy 
hands this night.' 

" 'Amen, amen!' echoed to the 
sound of weapons in the square. 

" 'Whaur's the gypsy?' cried some 
one — 'the one who gave us news of 
the sojers. ' 

" 'Here.' 

"Gavin saw the crowd open, and 
the woman of the Windyghoul came 
out of it, and, while he should have 
denounced her, he only blinked, for 
once more her loveliness struck him 
full in the eyes. 

" 'If I were a man,' she exclaimed 
to the people, 'I wouldna let mysel' 

she called, and slipped past him down 
the steps, even as he tried to seize her 

"The steady tap of feet in tune — 
a heavy sound to wives and mothers — 
could be plainly heai'd coming down 
the road. The square filled with 
soldiers, and emptied itself of towns- 
folk, amid a shower of clods and 

"Then the tap of feet was heard 
from the east end of Thrums. More 
soldiers — the weavers were hemmed 

"Under command of resolute young 
Captain Halliwell, tenement doors 



were smashed in, and frightened men 
dragged out to the street, and, thence, 
to jail. But .the leaders had escaped, 
and Halliwell, in the round room of 
the town-house, was not in a good 

" 'Mr. Sheriff,' he was saying, 'the 
whole thing has heen a fiasco, owing 
to our failure to take them by- 
surprise. ' 

" 'Well, who warned them? It was 
a close secret be- 
tween you and 
me and Lord 

"'Find the 
gj'psy woman,' 
ordered the cap- 
tain, 'and I will 
find your a n - 
swer. ' 

' ' A half-hour 
later, the great 
door of the room 
was flung open, 
and two soldiers 
thrust the girl 
into the room. 

'''You can 
leave her here, ' 
Halliwell said 
carelessly. 'Three 
of us are not 
needed to guard 
a woman. 

' ' The room was 
lit by a single 
lamp, and the 
girl crouched 
away from it, 
hiding her face 
in her hands. 

"'Why dont 
you look at me?' 

began Halliwell, taking her wrists in 
his hands. 

" 'By Jove!' he said to her freed 
face. 'Where did you get those eyes?' 

"She did not answer, but quickly 
slid a sparkling ring off her finger. 

"'If I tell you all,' she said 
eagerly, 'will you let me go?' 

" 'I may ask the sheriff to do so,' 
he said, with an effort at sternness. 

" 'You're angry wi' me,' she 
sobbed. ' I wish I had never seen you, ' 


" 'I am not angry with you,' he 
said gently. 'You are an extraor- 
dinary girl.' 

"There was silence, save for her 
sobs. He paused, and drew near her. 
Was she crying? Was she not 
laughing at him rather? He grew 

"Her hand was on the handle of 

the door. Slie was turning it, when 

his hand fell on hers so suddenly that 

she screamed. He 

twisted her 


"'Silence!' he 

"The sheriff's 
step was heard 
coming up the 
stair. The door 
opened, a n d h e 
entered. Ashe 
did so, the girl 
upset the lamp, 
and the room was 
at once in dark- 

"The captain 
gripped her skirt. 
" 'Shut the 
door. ' 

"With his free 
hand, Halliwell 
relit the lamp. 
He was grasping 
the skirts of the 
sheriff's coat. 
T here was no 

" 'Open the 
door.' But the 
door would not 
oi>en; the gypsy 
had fled, and had 
carefully locked it behind her. 

"It was now close on to three 
o'clock, with the clouds marching past 
the moon, when Gavin turned his face 
toward the manse. A cordon of 
soldiers was posted around the town. 

"He fancied that some one was 
following him, but was it not only 
fancy, in a night of alarms ? In front 
of him, he could see the white facings, 
like skeletons' ribs, on uniforms in the 



"He stopped. So did the imper- 
ceptible step back of him. 

"Then Gavin turned back — there, 
shrouded in a long cloak that con- 
cealed even her feet, was the evil 
woman. For a moment he had it in 
his heart to warn her of the soldiers. 
Then a horror shot thru him. She 
was stealing toward him. He turned, 
and almost ran. 

"As he came up with the soldiers, 
in the dim light, a little hand touched 
his arm from behind. 

" 'Stop,' cried a sergeant, and then 
Gavin stepped out before him — ^with 
the gypsy on his arm. 

" 'It is you, Mr. Dishart,' said the 
sergeant, ' and your lady ? ' 

" 'I ' said Gavin. 

"His lady pinched his arm. 'Yes,* 
she answered, in an elegant English 
voice, 'but, indeed, I am sorry I ven- 
tured on the streets tpnight. I could 
do little, sadly little.' 

" 'It is no scene for a lady, ma'am, 

but your husband has Did you 

speak, Mr. Dishart?' 

" 'Yes, I must inf ' 

" 'My dear,' said the gypsy, 'I 
quite agree with you.' 

" 'Sergeant,' said Gavin, firmly, 'I 
must ' 

" 'You must, indeed, dear,' said the 
Egyptian, 'for you are sadly tired. 
Good-night, sergeant.' 

" 'Your servant, Mrs. Dishart. 
Your servant, sir. ' 

" 'But ' cried Gavin. 

" 'Come, love,' she said, and walked 
the distracted minister thru the sol- 
diers and up the manse road. 

" 'You — ^you — ^woman!' he finally 
blurted out. 'Have you no respect 
for law and order?' 

" 'Not overmuch,' she answered 

"She read his thoughts. 'It is not 
too late,' she said. 'Why dont you 
shout to them ? ' 

"He walked on to the manse gate. 

"Good-by,' she said, holding out 
her hand; 'if you are not to give me 

" 'I am not a policeman,' said 
Gavin, 'but I hope never to see your 
face again.' 

"The next moment he saw her 
walking away. Then she turned. 

" 'There are soldiers at the top of 
the hill,' she cried. 'I'm going back 
to give myself up. ' 

" 'Stop!' Gavin called, but she 
would not until his hand touched her 

" 'Why,' whispered Gavin, giddily, 
'why — ^why do you not hide in the 
manse garden ? ' 

' ' There were tears in her eyes now. 

" 'You are a good man,' she said. 
' I like you. ' 

" 'Dont say that,' Gavin cried in 
horror, then hurried from her without 
looking at her again. 

"Almost with the birth of morning, 
the little minister hurried into his 
garden. The girl was gone, but on a 
garden bench lay the cloak she had 
worn, and a spare Bible that he had 
dropped in the midst of his reading. 

' ' During the day, news came to him 
that the Egyptian had inarvelously 
escaped the soldiers, in the stolen 
cloak of Captain Halliwell, and 
Gavin clutched the telltale thing up 
and hid it in his attic. 

"But of the Bible, there is far 
worse to say, for on Sunday, as Gavin 
was to preach on Woman, the church 
was crowded. 

" 'You will find my text,' he had 
said in his piercing voice, 'in the 
eighth chapter of Ezra.' 

"Then he turned the pages of his 
Bible, stared hard at them, gave a sort 
of groan, and half fell against the 
back of the pulpit. He had read these 
penciled lines, not written by Ezra: 
'I will never tell that you allowed me 
to be called Mrs. Dishart before 
witnesses. But is not this a Scotch 
marriage ? Signed, Babbie, the Egyp- 
tian. ' 

"No snow could be seen in Thrums 
by the beginning of the year, tho a 
black frost had set in, and every 
morning the manse path was beautiful 
with spider's threads. Later on, the 
shouts of the curlers could be heard, 
coming up from Rashie-bog. And 
there was a sound of weeping, too, if 
any one had listened close, for old 



Nanny Webster, with her brother 
sent to jail on the fatal night, was 
about to go to the poorhouse. 

"She was not of the Auld Lieht 
faith, but Dr. McQueen had, in his 
rough way, told Gavin of her condi- 
tion, and these two drove over to 
comfort her, and to fetch her in a 

' ' ' There will be broth every day at 
the poorhouse,' said Dr. McQueen. 

" 'It — it'll be terrible enjoyable,' 

" 'Have pity on her, God!' said 
Gavin, stretching out his hands. 

"An answer came — a strange one — 
for the door opened, and the Egyptian 

"Nanny fell to crying at her feet, 
and poured out her story in broken 

' ' The girl 's arms clasped her. ' How 
dare you!' she cried, turning to the 
others, with indignation in her eyes, 
and they quaked like malefactors. 


said Nanny, and, after a little: 'Are 
you sure there's naebody looking?' 

"The doctor glanced at the min- 
ister, and Gavin rose. 

" 'Let us pray,' he said, and the 
three went down on their knees. 

"They all advanced toward the 
door without another word. But, in 
the middle of the floor, something 
came over her, and she stood there. 

" 'It's cruel hard,' muttered the 
doctor, ' I knew her when a lassie. ' 

"Dr. McQueen, very red in the 
face, finally explained that Nanny 
was not an Auld Licht, and that 
money was not forthcoming for her. 

" 'Oh! the money,' said the girl, 
scornfully, and confidently put her 
hand into her pocket. She could 
draw out only two silver pieces. 

" 'I thought so,' said the doctor. 
'Come, Nanny.' 

"'Stop!' said the girl, blocking 
the door. ' Tomorrow I will bring five 



pounds — no; you meet me at the 
Kaims of Cusliie.' 

"Dr. McQueen almost sneered, but 
Gavin said : ' I will come ; I trust you. ' 

" 'Be careful,' said the doctor, 
buttoning his coat ; 'your every move- 
ment is a text in Thrums.' 

" 'You forget yourself, doctor,' 
said Gavin, sharply, but the doctor 
was gone. 

" 'Nanny and I are to have a dish 

Her kindness, her gayety, her co- 
quetry, her movements of sadness had 
been a witcli 's fingers, and Gavin was 
still trembling under their touch. 

"A minister, it is certain, who wore 
a smile on his face would never have 
been called to the Auld Licht Church, 
but Gavin smiled repeatedly. It is 
even reported that, on leaving Nan- 
ny's hut, he leaped lightly over the 
gate, like any ordinary mortal. 


of tea,' said the girl. 'Wont you join 

" 'We couldna dare,' spoke up 
Nanny, quickly. 'You'll excuse her, 
Mr. Dishart, for the presumption ? ' 

" 'Presumption!' said the girl, 
making a face. 

"Nevertheless, Gavin did stay, 
letting the doctor's warning fall on 
the grass as he was ordered to draw a 
bucket of water. The girl calling her- 
self Babbie, whose signature had 
blasphemed his Bible, played upon 
him as upon a musical instrument. 

"But there was one who had stood 
back of the firs in Nanny's garden, 
had seen all, and whose heart had 
turned to flint against the witcheries 
of Babbie. It was Rob Dow, who now 
believed himself an instrument of God 
to remove the woman out of the little 
minister's path. 

"It does not become me to relate 
the ripening intimacy, which at last 
became love, of Gavin and the 
strange girl. Their natures were 
very dissimilar, yet at the bottom of 
each heart, as in a well, there must 



have been sweetness, or they never 
would have so cleaved together. 

"Gavin met her in the dejected firs 
of Kaims, with drops of water falling 
listlessly from them, and, even then, 
he had not decided which of two 
women she was at heart. But he came 
away with two tokens : the money she 
had promised for Nanny, and some- 
thing more — a bunch of rowan berries 
from her hair, that she, at parting, 
had pressed into his hand. 

' ' Gavin told himself not to go near 
Nanny's hut the following day, but 
he went. 

' ' He found Babbie struggling to lift 
a heavy stone from the well-cover, and 
superhuman strength rushed to his 
arms as he rolled it away. 

' ' ' How strong you are ! ' Babbie 
said, with open admiration, but, in his 
heart, he felt that he was pitifully 

' ' ' Good-by, ' she said, later, after a 
breathless hour together. 

"The minister's legs could not have 
heard him give the order to march, for 
they stood waiting. 

" 'The man I could love,' Babbie 
went on, not heeding him, 'must not 
spend his days in idleness, as the men 
I know do; he must be brave; must 
take the side of the weak against the 
strong • 

" 'If you will listen to reason, 
Babbie,' cried Gavin, 'I am that 

"Here they suddenly ended, and 
found themselves staring at each 
other, as if they had heard something 
dreadful. Then they turned, and 
hurried out of the wood in opposite 

"It must have been the following 
night that Gavin, seated in the manse 
study with his mother, thought he 
detected the flash of lightning, but 
there was no thunder. 

" 'It is harmless,' he said, going to 
the window. Then he drew back as if 
struck. 'It is nothing, mother,' he 
said, with a forced laugh. 'Let me 
light your lamp for you. ' 

"She kist him good-night, and was 
gone. But something had struck him. 
It was the flashing of a lantern 

against his window, and the face 
behind it was Babbie's. 

"Only something terrible, Gavin 
thought, hurrying out, could have 
brought her to him at such an hour. 
But, when he had joined her, she was 
quite calm. 

"In his alarm, he kist her, and she 
knew with that kiss the little minister 
was hers forever. 

"But, of a sudden, she grew shy, 
and the words that were on her tongue 
sank back into her bosom. Try as he 
could, Gavin could find no reason for 
her coming. 

"She promised to tell him all, at 
Nanny's, on the morrow. But the 
morrow was Sunday, which Gavin — 
poor shepherd — had forgotten. 

"At the top of the hill, she took the 
lantern from him. 'You must go 
back,' she whispered fiercely. 'If you 
are seen, all Thrums will be in an 
uproar before morning.' 

" 'I cannot help that,' said Gavin. 
'It is the will of God.' 

" 'To ruin you for my sins?' 

"'If He thinks fit' 

"Then there came a sob, a short 
scuffle, and Babbie, with the lantern, 
was running down the hill. 

"He stretched out his arms, as if 
seeking in the dark. 

"The church bell was ringing the 
next morning as Babbie sat by 
Nanny's side. The girl's eyes were 

" 'Babbie,' said the old woman, 
suddenly, 'what has come over you?' 

" 'Nothing— I think I hear the 
bell, ' but she was thinking of how, at 
the top of the hill, a weak man had 
become strong. 

"Later, she wandered out over a 
bleak hill, and came to a great slab 
called the Standing Stone. Here she 
found a little boy, very ragged, 

"She put a hand on his shoulder, 
and asked him what he was doing 

" 'I'm wishing,' he blubbered; 'it's 
a wishing stane.' 

" 'And what are you wishing?' 

" 'I'm wishing about a woman — 



her that sent my father, Rob Dow, to 
the drink. I'm wishing she was in 

" 'What woman is it?' asked 
Babbie, shuddering. 

" 'A gypsy woman, who has be- 
witched the minister, an' should the 
folks know, they'll stane him out o' 
Thrums. ' 

"Babbie held up her hands like a 

" 'Stop your tears, laddie,' she 
said, 'and run home, for I'm going 
away, and Thrums will never see 
more of me. ' 

"Then Babbie went away — the 
wondering boy watching her across 
the hill. 

"In vain did Gavin search for her. 
Months passed by, and he went about 
his duties with a drawn face that 
made folks uneasy when it was stern, 
and pained them when it tried to 

"And now comes a certain night in 
summer, so momentous that it sets 
my heart to beating wildly, and 
swings my head dizzily when I think 
of it and the little part I had to 

"It was about seven o'clock of the 
evening, and the Auld Lichts had, set 
the night apart for a service of prayer 
to break the disastrous drought that 
had palsied our fields. 

"As I passed thru Caddam woods, 
on my way to the service, I could have 
sworn I saw the flirt of the Egyptian 's 
skirt as she entered Nanny's hut — but 
soberer things were on my mind. It 
must have been my mentioning of it 
to the minister, as we met on the 
Thrums road, that turned him so 
white, and made him turn back. But, 
again, I thought nothing of it. 

"The church bell was ringing as I 
entered, and Thomas Whamond stood, 
watch in hand, beside the other elders. 
It was the first time Gavin had been a 
second late. 

"But my story must go back to 
what happened in Caddam woods. 

"Gavin entered Nanny's hut, to 
find Babbie alone, on her knees. She 
was praying. 

"As she rose, he took her hand, but 
she pulled it away from him. 'No, 
no, ' she cried, ' I am to tell you every- 
thing, and then ' 

"When she had finished in the same 
low tones as contained her confession 
thruout, the service bell had ceased 
ringing in the church. Gavin, with 
his face set between quivering hands, 
could scarcely believe that she had 
spoken. Babbie, the girl of the woods, 
a gypsy waif picked up on the road by 
Lord Rintoul years ago, and brought 
up as his ward ! And now, in a day 
more, she was going to marry him. 

" 'Dont say that you love me still,' 
she entreated, as he stood in the open 
doorway. 'Oh, Gavin, do you?' 

" 'But that matters very little 
now, ' he said. 

"The sounds of a dogcart and a 
barking dog were heard approaching. 

" 'It is Lord Rintoul searching for 
me,' she said. 

"Gavin took one step nearer 
Babbie, and stopped. 

"He did not see how all her 
courage went from her, and she held 
out her arms to him, but he heard a 
great sob and then his name. 

" 'Quick,' he said, 'out with the 
light — ^we will be married tonight in 
the gypsy camp on the hill. ' 

"At almost the same moment three 
things happened : The elders solemnly 
closed the church, locked it, and set 
forth down the Caddam road for 
the manse; the dogcart stopped at 
Nanny's hut, its occupants found it 
deserted, then, under the guidance of 
the dog, followed where he led; Rob 
Dow, in the grip of drink, the pitiless 
instrument of the Lord, rose from 
behind the firs and followed his 

"Under the feeble light of the 
stars, Gavin and Babbie were married 
by gypsy rite. They had stood, hand 
in hand, over the tongs, on a bare 
hill, as the strange ceremony was 

"A prolonged, vivid flash of light- 
ning revealed to them, as if cut out of 
silver, the tall figure of Lord Rintoul 
in his dogcart, within a few paces of 
them. He sat immovable, and, by his 



side, the group of elders was staring, 
as in a death glare, at the scene. 

" 'There is Lord Rintoul in the 
dogcart,' Babbie whispered, drawing 
in her breath. 

' ' ' Yes, dear, ' said Gavin ; ' I am 
going to him. Have no fear — you are 
my wife.' 

"In the vivid light, Gavin had 
thought tlie dogcart nearer than it 
was. He called Lord Rintoul 's name, 
but got no answer. Instead, there 
were shouts behind, dogs barking and 
running, but only silence in front. 

Babbie off. He meant to drown her 
in Nanny's well, for witches fear only 
fire and water. - 

"As they neared Windyghoul, the 
wind came shrieking thru the glen, 
wrapping sheets of rain about them. 
But Rob carried her to the side of the 
well, his face set in a frenzy to do his 
clear duty. 

' ' He set her down, and, as he lifted 
the mossy stone from the well-top, a 
wall of rain blew between them. 

"Babbie heard an awful crackling 
sound above her, a thud on the earth. 



)'M^" i 


" 'Is that you, Gavin?' Babbie 
asked just then. 

"For reply, the man, creeping up 
behind her, clapped a hand over her 
mouth. Her scream was stopped mid- 
way. A strong arm drove her into 
the woods. 

"And then the prayerless rain 
came down like iron rods. Gavin, half 
blind, heard the stifled cry, and 
turned back. The hill was naked of 
its dwellers, and Babbie was gone, 
lie staggered after the sound of 
retreating carriage wheels down the 

"It was Rob Dow who had carried 

and then a groan. A heavy branch 
had fallen upon Rob, and pinned him 

' ' In an instant, she was on her feet, 
and running lilindly thru the wood 
toward the manse. 

"It must have been an hour after 
dawn when Gavin came out on the 
cliffs overlooking the Inharity. The 
river tumbled, below him, angrj' and 
swollen from the cloudburst of the 
night, and a rumor had filtered into 
Thrums that a man and dogcart, 
crossing the bridge that led to Spittal 
Castle, had gone down in the flood. 

"Even now, a shepherd and a 



liandful of weavers were running 

along the cliff. 

"Presently they crouched down, 

and pointed at something below. 

Gavin followed and peered down thru 

the mist. 

' ' There, on a tiny bit of island, lay 

Lord Rintoul, washed up by the flood. 
" ' Is he alive ? ' asked Gavin. 
" 'Ay; he moved a minute since.' 
" 'I'm going to jump for him.' 
" 'No, no,' said those nearest to 

servant, Jean, I leave a book. I give 
to Rob Dow my Bible with the brass 
clasp. ' 

"The water had worked up to his 

" 'The weekly prayer meeting will 
be held, as usual, on Thursday, at 
eight o'clock, and the elders will 
officiate. ' 

"He stopped, for the water lapped 
at his face. 

" 'Now I ken,' said Cruiekshanks, 


him, but, even as they spoke, he 

"There was a cry in the gorge; 
those above thought it the minister's 
death-cry, but it was the echo of their 


He's landed safely, praise God.' 
No, no ; he 's slipping, I tell yoii. ' 
" 'There's no rope to save them.' 
"But, suddenly, Gavin's voice came 
up to them clear and strong : ' If you 
hear me, hold up your hands as a sign. 
The bit of land is sliding away fast — 
we may survive a few minutes. Wlien 
you find me, give my watch to Mr. 
Ogilvy, the schoolmaster, as a token. 
" 'To each of my elders, and my 

the atheist, 'that it's only a fool wha 
says in his heart: "There is no 

"Again Gavin's voice came up to 
them. 'Let us repeat the fourteenth of 
Matthew, twenty-eighth verse: "But 
when Peter saw the wind boisterous, 
he was afraid ; and, beginning to sink, 
he cried, saying, Lord save me. And 
Jesus immediately stretched forth His 
hand and caught him, and said unto 
him, thou of little faith, wherefore 
didst thou doubt?" ' 

' ' Once more the mist settled. 

" '0 Lord,' cried an Auld Licht 
man, 'lift the mist, for it's mair than 
we can bear. ' 



"The mist rose slowly, and those 
who had the courage to look saw 
Gavin praying with Lord Rintoul. 
Many could not bear to look, and 
some of them did not even see Rob 
Dow jump. 

"For it was Rob, the man Avith the 
crushed leg, who saved Gavin's life, 
and flung away his own for it. 

"My pupils have a game," said 
Mr. Ogilvy, wiping his e.yes, "that 
they call 'The Little Minister,' in 
which the two best fighters insist on 
being Rob Dow and Gavin. I notice 
that the game is finished when Rob 
dives from a haystack, and Gavin 
and the earl are dragged to the top of 
it by a rope which he brought. So 
much is all true, and wonderfully 
well done. 

' ' Then there is another scene which 
is only a marriage, Avhieh the girls 
play, making the boys take the part of 
Aiild Licht elders, which they hate to 

"This scene is intended to repre- 
sent the formal wedding of Babbie 
and the little minister; for, I might 


add, the elders consented, and there 
never was such a happy wedding in 
all Scotland." 


To the Photoplayers 


When plaj'ing in a comic part, 
I wisli you all the bliss 

Of knowing that your audience 
Enjoys it just like this : 

Or when patlietie roles arise, 

And liappiness you miss, 
ilay friendl.v tears dim watching eyes, 

Until they loolc like this : 

But, oh ! no matter what you play, 

I hope tliey do not hiss, 
Or stiffl.v rise and turn away. 

Or sit and loolc like this: 



Great Mystery Play 

A Prize Contest for All 

Fill in the missing scenes successfully and win a prize ^^ fw' ^ 
of $100 in gold '\ 

IN the November issue, we published, in full, the details of a contest absolutely 
unique in idea. We printed a photoplay in which a man had invented a 
machine for manufacturing diamonds, which machine was mysteriously 
destroyed, a large diamond was stolen, and the inventor missing. We did not 
divulge the facts concerning the crime, but left several scenes blank, which 
scenes, if given, would have told the whole story down to the detection of the 
guilty one or ones. The police and a great detective proceed to solve the 
mystery, but, again, we leave out the scenes describing how it was done. We 
ask our readers to solve the mystery by filling in the missing scenes. 

To be one of the winners, a contestant need have no literary experience; 
need not be familiar with photoplays or players, and does not have to guess 
wildly, or express preferences : it is, rather, a fascinating game, dealing with 
human beings and their motives, which you, the contestant, must feel, and 
work out to a logical conclusion. In other words, a story, in photoplay form, is 
told you; the necessary characters introduced; the interest and characters 
surrounding the invention, and, finally, the theft of a magnificent diamond 
and invention, are told in detail. Who did it ? And why ? That is what we 
want to know. 

A study of the absorbing story cannot help but arouse interest to conjure 
up what is missing. Its help, too, in writing future photoplays will be invalu- 
able to the reader. One of its interesting features is that the more it is 
discussed in the family, or among friends, the more the interest grows. As fast 
as the answers come in they are filed, to be submitted eventually to the judges 
— not one mantiscript will fail to have a reading, both in the editorial office and 
before the judges. 

At the present writing, we might state that sufficient interest is being 
shown to make the contest an assured success. Besides, we have received several 
hundred letters, some of them from abroad, complimenting the magazine on 
the human interest and originality of the idea. 

For the benefit of the readers who have not read the "story in photoplay 
form, we repeat the following simple rules, and print a synopsis of the 
photoplay — ample information for new contestants : 

(1) Any person is eligible to compete. 

(2) We do not insist on perfect technique and construction. 

(3) The best solution of the mystery is the main essential sought for. 

(4) No person may submit more than one solution, and each manuscript 
must contain nothing but the missing scenes, the cast of characters (if desired), 
and the name and address of the contestant. 

(5). It is not necessary to fill in every blank scene. 

(6) You may not change, add to, or take from the scenes already given: 
they must stand as they are, except that you may finish the incomplete last 

(7) The contest will close on December 31, 1912, but all letters post- 
marked on or before that date will be accepted, if received at this office before 
January 5, 1913. 

(8) If desired, the contestant may write simply the name of the person, or 
persoiis, who committed the crime, stating the circumstances and motives. All 
manuscripts submitted must be considered our property, and none will be 



returned. This photoplay, when completed by the first prize-winner, will be 
called The Mystery Play of The Motion Picture Story Magazine, and will 
be produced by the Vitagraph Company, with full credit of authorship to the 
contestant submitting the best solution. All communications should be 
addressed to "Editor the Mystery Play, M. P. S. Magazine, 26 Court Street, 
Brooklyn, N.Y." We cannot undertake to answer any inquiries regarding the 
contest. The complete photoplay (all but the missing scenes) was published 
in the November issue, and it will not be published again. A copy of that 
magazine will be forwarded to any person desiring it, for 15 cents, in 
stamps or cash. The judges will be announced in the next issue. For your 
convenience, a synopsis of The Great Mystery Play is here given : 


Jonathan Moore, inventor and chemist, is down to his last dollar, but, 
assisted by his daughter, Violet, and against the wishes of his wife, he persists 
in fitting up their living-room as a laboratory and continuing his researches. 
Olin, in love with Violet, enters, and shows his jealousy of Phelps, the son of 
Moore's best friend. After repeated experiments with his formula and 
crucible, Moore succeeds in making a large, perfect diamond, which is seen 
by all. 

Phelps slips out to his father's diamond shop, and, with consternation, 
tells him of the discovery. Olin, too, is troubled, as its results may place Violet 
beyond his reach. Meanwhile, Firestone, the diamond merchant, calls on 
Moore, and is shown the beautiful stone. He leaves, dazed, believing the 
process will ruin his business. 

The inventor cautiously hides his diamond and formula, cables the result 
to the International Diamond Syndicate, London, and asks for an offer. Blood- 
good, the English manager, receives cablegram, and notifies his N. Y. agent, 
Rollins, not to make a move till he comes. 

Meanwhile, Phelps receives a sure tip on the races thru his reckless friend, 
Bill. They both are broke, and Firestone refuses to advance money. In 
desperation, Phelps goes to Olin, who loans him money and takes a receipt. 
Their horse is a bad loser, and Phelps, disheartened, calls on Violet. Believing 
him half sick, she tenderly cares for him, but Olin overlooks the scene and 
summons Phelps into the hall. Olin, in a jealous rage, demands his money. 
Phelps is destitute and puts him ofiE, to return to Violet. Thru artless questions, 
he finds out from her the secret of the invention, and suddenly leaves to tell 
Bill the cheerful news, and claiming that he himself is the inventor. 

Bill is convinced and takes Phelps to the room of some counterfeiters. 
Phelps draws plans of his supposed invention, and, finally, sells it to them for 
a considerable sum. The next day he pays his debt to Olin. 

In Bill's presence, the counterfeiters construct the diamond-making 
machine, and find it inadequate. Bill promises to find Phelps and to fetch him 
there. He goes to Firestone's shop, and is directed by him to the Moores' 
house. He enters the laboratory, sees the invention, denounces Phelps, and 
leaves as Phelps tries to explain things to Violet. The success of the invention 
looks blue, as no word has come from England. Mrs. Moore is sarcastic and 
miserable, but Moore and Violet still hope against hope. In the meantime, the 
swindled counterfeiters hold Bill responsible for the trickery of Phelps. 

The unexpected day comes when Rollins, the syndicate agent, calls on 
Moore, to do business. Phelps, Violet, Olin and Rollins watch Moore make a 
diamond. They show great interest and, finally, consternation as Moore refuses 
an offer of $1,000,000 for his process. Rollins leaves, with a sneer. 

Mrs. Moore tells of her husband's obstinacy, to her lady friends, who start 
by sympathizing and end by plotting with her. Violet enthuses over their 



prospect to Phelps, who puts his arm about her. Olin leaves the house in a 
blind rage. He has barely gone when Bill enters and, asking to see Phelps 
alone, accuses him of knavery. Phelps breaks down, and Violet rushes to his 
relief. She listens to his confession. As she and Bill plan to save him, Fire- 
stone enters and realizes his son's guilt. He denounces him and sends him 
away, finally seizing on Bill to help him plan a scheme to save Phelp's 

Meanwhile, in Rollins' office, Bloodgood states that something must be 
done at once — if the invention comes out their diamond fields are worthless. 
They leave for a drinking-place to plan further — at the same time the baffled 
counterfeiters, in their room, twist and turn about the useless plans of Phelps. 

In the drinking-place Rollins sees the broken-spirited Phelps. Rollins 
thinks he may be of use, and introduces Bloodgood to him. 

On the evening of the same day, the inventor cautiously closes his labora- 
tory, puts out light, and retires on cot in corner. (What happens next is to be 
supplied by the contestant — scenes 46, 47 and 48.) 

Thru open window an indistinguishable figure or figures climb in and flit 
about room. There is an explosion where the diamond machine was. Violet 
enters with light, sees wrecked machine, and discovers that the diamond, 
formula and inventor are all missing. Telephones police. 

The police captain sends an officer, who, after taking notes, reports it a 
baffling case. The captain decides to call Lambert Chase, the famous detective, 
into the case, and telephones him particulars. 

Chase almost immediately appears at the Moores' and makes an inspection. 
The following day, having ordered every one concerned to be present, he seats 
them all — Olin, Phelps, Bill, counterfeiters, Firestone, Rollins, Bloodgood, 
Violet and her mother — at a table in the laboratory, and places an instrument, 
connected by wires to numbered charts, on their wrists. It is the pulseograph, 
or pulse-writer. Suddenly he places, successively, a miniature machine like 
the inventor's, 9. formula and an imitation of the diamond, on the table. 
Suddenly there is an explosion of the machine, and the diamond and formula 
are made to disappear. The detective then inspects the charts, and dramatically 

raises his hand to name the guilty one (The rest of the play is omitted, 

and the contestant is required to fill in the missing part of scene 57 and all of 
58 and 59. This need not be done in scenario form. Simply a narrative of 
what happened before the theft, and after the final meeting, would, perhaps, 
do, altho we would prefer the scenes in photoplay form.) 

A Leap-Year Valentine 


N this lifeless bit of paper, To take a trip around the world 

Dear sir, I'm sending you Via the changing screens. 

A heart that's loolcing for a mate, We'll view the Cathedral of Milan, 

And thinks that you will do. St. Peter's Church, in Rome, 

I'm glad it's leap year, for you see And Egypt's pyramids we'll see 

I now can choose a beau, Without our leaving home. 

And pick a rich proprietor To Nankin I should love to go. 

Of a Moving Picture show ! Where stands the Porcelain Tower ; 

Altho I do not care for wealth, Just think where we could travel 

I love the photoplay, Within one golden hour ! • 

And so, kind sir, if you'll agree, Please let me hear from you at once, 

I'll name the wedding day. And if you're to be mine 

Our honeymoon we'll spend abroad ; Enclose a ticket for the show — 

You'll have sufficient means, Your leap year valentine. 





T is hard to astonish the 
prof essionn 1 hiterviewer, 
who meets tlie unexpected 
at every turn, but when Mr. 
D'Arcy, of the Lubin Com- 
pany, said : "Tliis is Miss 
Clara Williams," I caught my 
breath in a surprised gasp 
that was genuine. I had 
heard of her as a favorite in 
vaudeville in New York ; I 
had seen her many times on 
the screen as the leading lady 
in Mr. Grandon's Western 
company — and still I was 
quite unprepared for the girl 
who rose to meet me as Mr. 
D'Arey spoke. For this girl, 
\vho was looking at me 
frankly out of clear, dark 
eyes, has the fresh, unspoiled 
look and manner of some 
schoolgirl who c:ime from the 
West hut yesterday. Nothing 
nbout her suggests the lights 
and glare of the cities where 
she has won her triumphs. 
The dark hair beneath her 
broad panama hat seemed to 
have been tossed into curls by 
the winds of the prairies, and 
surel.v that lovely, rich color- 
ing came from the Western 
sun. Her eyes, which are 
very large and dark, seemed 
filled with the spirit of youth 
and gladness — the eager, half- 
wondering look of a child who 
gazes upon a new world and 
finds it full of interest. Suc- 
cess seems to have showered 
its blessings upon this girl 
without exacting any of its 
u.sual tolls. 

When Jlr. Lubin came to 
New York to engage a new 
leading lady for his Western 
company, he was looking for a 
type. "I wiint a girl who 
looks the part." he declared, 
and he surely found her. Not 
only does she look the part, 
but her acting is superb. She 
is an enthusiastic, conscien- 
tious worker, putting all her 
life and per.sonuliiy into the part she is playing. Of course she is an expert swimmer 
and a perfect rider. The Indian pinto pony that she rides was bought specially for her, 
and no one else ever rides "Apiielucia." who is a wonderfully intelligent pony, loving 
Miss Williams devotedly, and responding instantly to her slightest suggestion. 




"My work began in California, wliere I played with Mr. Anderson, of the Bssanay 
Company," she said. "Tlien I left the pictures for tlie regular stage and vaudeville, but 
I came back to the pictures. Yes, I love the work. It is fascinating — ahva.vs something 
new, and boundless opportunities for improvement." 

Kecently Miss Williams has played the leading part in a Mexican i)icture. "The 
Divine Solution," and her fine work shows to great advantage here. "The New Ranch 
Foreman," "The Minister" and "Xlie Outlaw" are among her recent plays, but the 
one she likes best is "Parson James," where she takes the parts of both mother and 

"No, I do not care for the East," she sighed. "I am praying for the snow to fall 
early, for then we shall go to California. I long for Los Angeles, my home city, and 
for all the West — ^there is nothing here to compare with it. I'm terribly homesick, all 
the time." 

And, as I saw the longing look creep into those eyes, I resolved to pray for an early 
snowfall, too, that this charming girl of the golden West might return to her homeland. 

The Tatti^r. 


AviixAGE of thatch huts, 
p a 1 m a n d plantain 
trees, naked savages 
with murderous spears — in 
fact, Darkest Africa, the 
heart of Somalilaud — greeted 
me as I worked my perilous 
way thru the Vitagraph yard 
to the little clubhouse wherein 
tlie male players, when not 
posing, often gather for a 
game of cards. 

TefEt Jolmson, he whose 
tremendous shoulders and bi- 
ceps are rendered harmless 
by his kindly blue eyes, was 
the one I sought, and I found 
him. i)ipe in mouth, watching 
a pinochle game. 

"Let's go over to another 
table," he suggested, rising a 
good six feet, and stretching 
his two hundred pounds, 
"and swing our legs under it 
in comfort. Now, fire away !" 

"But, I've come to hear you 
talk," I protested. 

"Pooh ! the life of an actor 
— you know what that is : 
dreary days on the road, or 
grinding the treadmill in 
stocic companies. You dont 
know how good the little, do- 
mestic drama that I have 
played at home with my wife 
these past four years feels, 
do yow'l If not, you've never 
been an actor, as I have been. ■ , ' ^ 

"Yes," he resumed, with a refilled pipe, "four ' uiliuterrupted years with the Vita- 
graph Company, and a season with the Edison, has been-iny record, and many a Photo- 
player I've seen come and go, and many changes in this quick-fire art. 

"No, I'm not thinking of retiring," lie protested, "in spite, of my reminiscent atti- 
tude, but if I did it would be to a farm with, broad meadows, plenty of sheep and cattle, 
and a good fishing stream nearby. These are my hobbies," he cheeked off his fingers : 
"The country, lots of stock to raise and grade and doctor — I once was a young medico, 
you know — and, b.v all means, good fishing. 

"There is no place around here," he asseverated, "like the Raunt of Jamaica Bay for 
a run of weakflsh, but the land around it is all bog and salt meadow." He sighed from 
an inexhaustible chest at the unfitness of things. I was afraid that the chat would get 
no further. "How did you first come to go on the stage?" I asked. 


"Nothing simpler," said the big fellow. "I had come on to New York in search of 
adventure, and a friend told me that David Belasco, then a struggling, young manager, 
was getting together a company. I l)earded him straightway in his office. 

" 'Could you iake the part of a daredevil, blundering army sergeant?' he de- 
man^M' sharply.' 

. " 'As for the blundering, yes,' I promised, and 1 forthwith became a member of his 
company, to remain under his management twelve good years. 

"Afterwards, I played 'John Oxen' opposite Eugenie Blair in 'A Lady of Quality,' 
and the lead in 'The Heart of Maryland.' 

,"All-tbis"ti^^. I was pining for a home, and, at last, the chance came in photoplay 
worl£, and' I seized tipon it, as only a peace-loving citizen can. 

"In four years on^ does a quantity of posing," he resumed ; "it is an art in minia- 
ture, for uAich has to be done, or suggested, in seconds of time, but I should say, ofl- 
hand.-Hhstt my work as Henry VIII in 'Cardinal Wolsey,' as Tammas in 'Old Lang 
Syne,' and as the unfortunate chum in 'Foragers' are as good bits as any I've done. 

"If you remember 'Foragers,' my chum (Costello) and I separated, each to go Ills 
wa;?' after the Boer War. He became prosperous and famous, and I, luckless devil, 
went down and do\pn,' until I was doing pick-up jobs by the wayside. 
i ,' "One job was putting in coal, and, just at the time, the studio happened to be lay- 
fBg in the winter's supply, so the scene was cast in front of the Vitagraph coal-hole. 

" 'Are you ready?' ordered the director. 'Shovel !' And shovel I did with a right good 
will. First I put in a ton or so of small coal, while tha camera clicked the scene, then, 
as the camera-man and director still watched me, I tackled a heavier size. 

"Down the hole it roared for a full fifteen minutes — I had never done more realistic 
nor faithful work. At last I straightened up. Camera-man and director had disap- 
peared. I afterwards learnt tliat only my first few shovelsful were photographed, at 
all ; the rest was charged up to coal-heaving, pure and simple. 

"There was a time, tho," he continued, "during my early days of photoplaying that 
every one in tlie company lost his temper, including myself. I was cast as a diver, 
to do one of those deep-sea fights with a rival, in the bay off Fort Hamilton. 

"Everything being in readiness, we put off in our launch, and my rival disappeared 
to his lair under water. When my turn came, and the camera was merrily recording 
the scene, I put my feet into the water, and started for the bottom. But I popped right 
up again, much to the dismay of evers'body. A second time I tried it, with the same 
ridiculous result 'Keep him under for a few seconds,' roared the director, 'if you have 
to stun him with an oar,' but my buoyancy finally routed all their efforts. 

"When I, at last, clambered into the boat, blowing like a grampus, the cause of my 
acting was discovered by every one — I had forgotten to put on the diver's heavily 
weiglited shoes. 

"The sad part of the spoilt picture is yet to come," said TeEEt, puffing ruefully, "for 
even to this day when I am cast in a 'heavy' part, the incident is thrown up to me." 

"Ever been featured in the press — heroism or accident?" I asked. 

"Yes, most certainly — had the whole studio in mourning about it, too. It happened 
in this way. We were doing 'field work' in a country town, and a country painter 
named Tom Johnson fell off our hotel roof and broke his neck. 

"Some busybody immediately telegraphed the studio and the newspapers, and for 
a whole day I got the credit for it — read the most beautiful things about my work and 
my devotion to duty, too. The next day I had to wire in and ease their minds, how- 
ever, and be just plain Tefft Johnson again." Peteb Wade. 


Father calls me William, 

Sister calls me Will, 
Mother calls me Willie, 

But the fellers call me Bill ! 

So sang one of Mr. Riley's small boys, and I think Mr. Edwin August must have a 
kindred feeling for this yoimgster. For his real, truly name is — ^just take it slowly 
—Edwin August Phillip Von der Butz, and "the fellers" call him Jack ! But this 
is not all of the story about his names. In London he is known to the great, picture- 
loving public as Montague Lawrence ; in Australia, as Wilkes Williams ; in Ireland, as 
John Wilkes; in France, as Karl Von Busing, and in the Orient as David Cortlandt. 
All this is due to the fact that, before going to the Lubin Company, he was leading man 
with the Biograph Company, which, as every one knows, refuses to reveal the identity 
of any players; hence, the different exchanges abroad fitted names to his pictures to 
suit themselves. 

When Mr. August was a very small boy he started stage life in "Little Lord 



Fauutlei'oy," but cruel destiny took hiui from the stage 
and put liim iu school until he gi-aduated from the 
Christian Brothers' College in St. Louis — the town where 
he was born. For a time he was leading man in stock 
at the Imperial Theater, St. Louis; then he went with 
Otis Skinner and afterwards with Jlrs. Leslie Carter and 
Digby Bell. He was with the revival of "Shore Acres" 
in New York, and in the original cast of "Going Some." 
"The Climax" came next, following "William Lewers" 
at Weber's, in New York. 

One day Mr. August was walking down Broadway when 
he met Robert Carness, and they stopped to chat. During 
the conversation Mr. Carness put the query, "Why dont 
you do something in Jlotion Pictures?" It was a new idea 
to Mr. August, and he was inclined to look at it as a joke, 
but, finally, he was persuaded to go up to the Edison studio 
and meet Jlr. Plimpton. An iuunediate engagement fol- 
lowed, and for some time he alternated the pictures with 
his regular stage work. Then came a season when he 
was rehearsing with an all-star cast for "Diplomacy." 
Regardless of the play's suggestive title, all the stars got 
into a fight, and the play was abandoned. It was then 
that, attracted by the big salary offered, Mr. August went 
to the Biograph Company, where he was leading man until he went to the Lubin's six 
weeks ago. His first release from Lubin's will be "His Life," to be followed by "A 
Bond of Servitude," "At the Rainbow's End," "The Players" and "The Good-for- 

Mr. August is a student, reading constantly the best things in literature. He has 
WTitten many scenarios, among them "The Bearded Youth," "The Sorrowful Child" and 
"The Mender of Nets," released l>y the Biograph, and "The Song of a Soul," one of the 
most beautiful productions of the Edison Company. 
"Do you like I'hiladelphia?'' I asked him. 

"Well — it's only a little way from New York," he replied. "I can run over every 
week, you see." 

Unlike many of the photoplay stars, Mr. August makes no attempt to conceal his 
profession in his private life. In the fashionable neighborhood where he lives, he is 
known and pointed out to the visiting stranger. He is very fond of society, and loves 
dancing, so it is small wonder that he is a bit stiff and tired after his weekly visits to 
New York. He is fond of baseball, also, but his great hobby is chicken breeding, and he 
owns an up-to-date chicken farm in California, where he is experimenting with the 
problem of featherless chickens. 

In appearance, Edwin August is the rather quiet, self-possessed tj'pe of gentleman, 
with a courteous ease of manner that niakes even the inquisitive interviewer feel com- 
fortable. He has very dark hair and a pair of fine, constantly changing eyes, which 
keep one guessing about their color. As nearly as I could determine, they are hazel — ■ 
when they are not black or brown or gray or some of the shades between. He has a 
splendid voice, strong and w-ell-modulated, and his enunciation is perfect. It seems a 
pity that his pictures cannot talk! His clothing is absolutely correct, and "matched 
up" to the last detail. 

No, I did not ask whether he is married. What's the use? 

The Inquisitob. 


PiCTUBE to yourself a merry little elfin creature, bubbling all over with childish 
glee, from her bobbing black curls and her dancing black eyes to the tips of her 
tiny twinkling feet, and .you have a picture of Miss Vivian Prescott when as a 
wee girl she danced her way into fame as a little toe-dancer on the theatrical stage in 
the far West. Now vest this dainty creature with all w-omanliness, give her fascination, 
vivacity, charm, mix with childish eagerness the enthusiasm of youth — and you have 
Miss Prescott grown up. 

Of a truth, she is rightly named — ^"Vivian," Everything about her suggests keen 
alertness — her bright smile, her cordial manner, her quick walk (which is almost a 
skip), her impulsive gestures, her vibrant voice, and her unbounded enthusiasm. 
Almost her first words, as we settled ourselves in her dressing-room for our little tOte-tl- 
tete, were, "I love the stage," and the way she said them left no doubt in my mind. 
Did she talk of motor-cars, it was the same; of riding, rehearsing. Motion Pictures, 
fellow-actors, hard study — always the same refrain, "I love it." 

Beginning her career at so earl.y an fige, Miss Prescott was practically "brought up 



on the stage," as she expresses it. and 
soon developed great asi)irations, aiming 
at nothing less than becoming a Mrs. Les- 
lie Carter ! Her a.spirations are certainly 
no lower now than they wore then, altho 
they may have changed objectively. For- 
tunately for us, this longing for the stage 
was fostered by a doting mother, despite 
fatherly iirotests, and the years saw Miss 
Prescott in many roles. 

Finally there came a smnnier pause in 
the theatrical profession, and Motion I'ic- 
tures were suggested to her one morning 
l)y no less an agent than the cohnnns of 
the Dramatic Mirror. A photograi)h and a 
friend at court elicited a call from the* 
Biograph Company that very afternoon, 
and in fear and trembling she went down 
to the studio, all unbeknown to her family. 
The disappointment written on the man- 
ager's face, as he saw her, caused a corre- 
sponding sinlving of Iier heart. 

"But, Miss Prescott. you're such a 
tiny girl !" he exclaimed. "I expected, 
from your picture, that you would be 

She may have been small, but she was 
not insignificant, as the manager evidently 
soon saw, for he found a place for her in 
one of his pictures, and Vivian Prescott, 
like so many others before and since, fell victim to the charms of Motion IMcture acting, 
altho in her case it took a peremptory summons and a hurry call with an automobile 
to finally win her. And now she "loves" Motion Picture work, and couldn't he per- 
suaded to go back to the stage, despite the fact that her family would rather see her 

For two years she remained with the Biograph Company, playing the athletic girl, 
the boarding-school girl, the college girl, enjoying the out-of-door life and fun and 
gaiety the parts demanded, and for which she is so well suited, and, of course, she 
"loved" it. She declares that she has been a bride "one thousand times." and I suppose 
she loved that. too. But I'm sure there's only one man in the real-life case (and a 
real-life case there must be, for nobody who so loves to love could escape when all 
the world loves to />,e loved), and he has a motor-ear, and, need I say, he's mighty luckyV 
After the Biograph years, there appeared, upon the horizon of her destiny, the 
Imp. Now imp, with a small i, may mean innumerable things, but Imp with a capital 
/ means one and only one — Independent Motion Pictures. This purposeful ogre got her 
in its clutches, and now Miss Prescott is one of the Imps. What parthnilar propensities 
in that line she showed early in Iier career I must leave for the Biographers to de- 
termine. At any rate, altho she does not love comedy less, she now appears in tragedy 
more, with "Cigarette," "Fanchon, the Cricket," and "Leah, the Forsaken" standing 
out especially in her memory. She often writes her own scenarios, and she must be 
delightful in the Spanish and Gypsy parts she described to me. 

Whatever Imp, as a name, may suggest in the way of frivolity, it certainly stands 
for solid work. 'There isn't an unutilized space in the studio, a superfluous article, or 
a spare moment Here Miss Prescott works and plays, and is an inspiration in herself. 
And I left her at the close of a hard day's work with her irrepressible spirits un- 
conquered and unclouded. Gladys Roosevelt. 

Mother Goose Up to Date 


This merry Christmas day. 
Is it cranberry sauce that makes himsocross 

He wont go out to play? 
He pounds the floor and kicks the door. 

Forgetting 'tis Christmas day. 
But see, his smiles come scampering back, 
He has found his nickel down in a crack, 

He's off to the Photoplay. 

Vaudeville in Moving Picture Theaters 


THREE years ago, the present 
writer issued a protest against 
a perpetuation of the policy, 
then generally in vogue, of present- 
ing vaudeville acts in theaters where 
the public was originally created 
and the patronage sustained solely 
thru the millions of new amusement 
. seekers to whom the Moving Pictures 
came as a revelation. 

It was not vaudeville, nor any part 
of that phase of the general amuse- 
ment scheme, which changed the 
theatrical map. It was the Moving 
Pictures, almost despised by the 
vaudeville managers of . a decade 
ago, and often used by them as a 

Half of New York's playhouses, at 
some time or other, unable to attract 
profitable patronage along the olden 
lines, were made paying visitations 
thru the medium of the Motion Pic- 
ture. It is true that the class of 
theaters known as "Pop" vaudeville, 
houses have prospered amazingly, but 
eventually we will discover that this 
condition has come about at the ex- 
pense of what is known as the "Big 
Tune" vaudeville theaters — or, in 
fact, the theaters where the scale of 
prices for seats is four times as large 
as at the "Pop" houses. 

But — and I cant make the "B" big 
enough — ^there is due to come a day 
of reckoning wherein it will be 
quickly apparent that it is the per- 
sistent improvement in the output of 
the film manufacturers that has sus- 
tained the "Pop" vaudeville houses; 
and, in many cases, the public protest 
has been so vehement that all vaude- 
ville acts were withdrawn in scores of 
theaters all over the country, with an 
after result wholly constructive. 

Marcus Loew understands this con- 
dition thoroly ; so does William Fox ; 
that is why these two successful show- 
men are erecting palatial theaters, to 
be devoted exclusively to the silent 
drama. Mr. Loew has been impressed 


with the outcome of the policy at the 
Herald Square, Circle, and Royal the- 
aters, where photoplays alone serve to 
sustain establishments with attmual 
rentals ranging from $20,0CfD to 
$50,000. 'f 'i-v. 

I kiave observed, too, that in 
the theaters where Motion Pictures, 
alone, liave replaced the combination 
policy, the sizie of the audiences has 
i^creaffeft? while the expenses have 
gjreatly decreased. Moreover, there 
are/^taaD^, like myself, _:who will re- 
^"e ^ suffer thwi two intolerable 
yaud^vijle acts to se^ one good photo- 
pla^f^and this hasresulted in- the cre- 
iEttiSo. Of a vast public that will not 
enter; a theater. where vandeville and 
i^i<Sures represent the offering, jtn 
fliree years thi» public has grawn, 
until today there ax^ at least two 
hundred photoplay houses where the 
policy has been shifted in the manner 
here advised. 

As the caliber of the output on the 
screen continues to improve, so will 
the number of these exclusive the- 
aters multiply. In many of these, the 
price of admission has increased from 
ten cents to fifteen, and in some to 
twenty-five cents. 

In the next five years, we should 
witness the advent of a new era 
for the theater of science. This, in 
my humble opinion, may come the 
quicker if managers or exhibitors 
(why not call them managers?) will 
help typify the temples of the silent 
drama by eliminating the player in 
the flesh from their stages. If they 
will extend this co-operation to the 
manufacturers, there is no limit- as 
to the heights Moving Pictures will 
reach in this new era. Many maga- 
zine writers are vigorously demand- 
ing the typification of the photoplay 
house. Let this protest go on. Per- 
haps, when the new Kinemacolor 
Theater is ready for the public to 
enter, we may realize just what it 
means to typify the theater of science. 

IN spite of all that has been said, aud written, against the too frequent 
exhibition of photoplays that feature convicts, murder, forgery, drinking, 
stabbing, kidnapping, burglary and other offenses against the statute and 
moral laws, we still see too many of these objectionable plays. Among the 
"unpardonables" is a foreign one that has been the rounds, which features a 
very smart l)oy who plays the part of a fast man about town, drinking and 
doing all the improper things that an immoral man would do. Therer is no 
plot to the play, and nothing in it, apparently, that was intended to win our 
admiration, except the "smartness" of a mere boy who has so quickly matured 
as to imitate the sins of his elders. The mqral effect of this play upon our 
youths must be anything but uplifting, and if such things are tolerated abroad 
there is certainly no excuse for showing them here. Again we repeat, let us 
produce fewer immoral and crime plays, and let our constant aim be to raise 
the standard! 

Doubtless many bad boys have been made badder by Motion Pictures, 
just as they have by dime novels, cheap vaudeville, gambling, etc., but it is 
just as certain that many bad boys have been made better by Motion Pictures. 
And it is not only with the boys. Evei-y once in a while we read of some man 
or woman who has reformed after having seen some impressive photoplay, of 
some runaway boy who has returned home, of some erring woman who has 
turned back from her downwai'd course, of some desperate person who had 
decided upon a sinful deed, but who has now been rectified. Florence Turner 
says that she once received a letter from a person who said that she was on the 
verge of doing a desperate and wicked thing, when she saw a play in which 
Miss Turner did a similar thing, and, seeing the hideousness of it and the eon- 
sequences, had changed her mind and desisted. In other words, Miss Turner 
had saved a life, and it made her happy. Ever after, even to this day, she 
wonders, when she has done a good part, if the play will deter some poor soul 
from doing wrong, and it is this thought that makes her put so much emotion 
and reality in her work. Doubtless, other players, and writers of photoplays, 
feel as does Miss Turner, and, if so, it is plain that even if some harm comes 
from Motion Pictures, there is also a vast amount of good. 


It is sad to see a friend come to borrow money, for we know that either 
we shall lose the friend or the money. Bless the man who will lend me money, 
but not the man who does. A friend in need is a friend indeed — perhaps ! — it 
depends on how much he needs ! 







Somebody has said that the Motion Picture companies have gone thru 
literature with a fine-tooth comb, in an effort to get plots. If that be true, 
they may have to resort to "Old Sleuth, the Detective," "Chip, the Cave 
Child," "Evil Eye, King of the Cattle Kings," and the Beadle Library. Then 
there's Edward L. Wheeler's "Deadwood Dick," Harold Payne's "Thad 
Burr," J. C. Cowdrick's "Gilbert of Gotham," Albert W. Aiken's "Dick Tal- 
bert," Joseph E. Badger's "Frank Lightfoot," William Harbaugh's "Old 
Cap. Collier," Edward Manning's "Rustler Rube," Prentiss Ingraham's 
"Arizona Charley," William G. Patten's "Old Burke of Madison Square," 
and so on, and how the mere mention of these names brings back the happy 
days of youth, when we saved up our pennies, and secretly devoured those 
thrilling yarns ! I assume that we all did it, and I am not so sure that we are 
any the worse for it. When Motion Pictures first began to be popular, these 
were the types and plots that were most demanded. Now, since there has been 
such a hue and cry raised against Motion Pictures, we are beginning to see 
Shakespeare, Dickens, Scott, Cooper, and even Homer, on the screen. Of 
course, it is a change for the better, and a change that will perpetuate the 
Motion Pictures as a means of popular amusement, but, nevertheless, I'll 
wager that the best of us would like, if we own up to it, a little of the old-time 
"blood and thunder" tales once in a while. Lincoln, Seward, Chase, Zach. 
Chandler, Stephen J. Field, Senator Hoar and many other great men got the 
dime novel habit early in life, and it clung to some of them till their death. 

If not too indiscreet, might we inquire if you have observed the various 
announcements of our business friends who have favored us with their adver- 
tisements ? Please remember that by helping them, you help us, and that by 
helping us, you help them. 

' ' The Motion Picture, as Thackeray might say, now has his ambassadors 
in every part of the world. They enter the cabinets of kings, and turn their 
telephotographic lenses on coronations and durbars. Royalty pauses before 
, them in procession, troops fight sham battles, cowboys ride in pursuit of 
rustlers, and burglars ply their trade for their benefit. They catch the pick- 
pocket in the act, and the public speaker in his choicest period. Their cameras 
reproduce conflagrations, and depict railroad collisions, and if there are as yet 
no films showing the discovery of the North and South Poles, it is really 

We all appreciate wealth, and most of us are struggling to attain it, but 
there are two things more precious than wealth, and but few of us pay any 
attention to them — Time and Health. While time is money, how little do we 
value it and how carelessly do we squander it ! We are all apt to be penny 
wise and pound foolish. We save time in one way and squander it foolishly 
in another. Did you ever go into a barber shop and see how the patients of 
the tonsorial artist save time ? The victim of the rush of business sits down 
■J in the chair, with a newspaper in one hand and a manicurist holding the other. 
A chiropodist works at one foot, while a bootblack works at the other. As the 
barber fills his face with lather, and his ears with words, the poor man's 
mind is beset with thoughts, lather, words, chiropodist, manicurist, news, boot- 
black, and business. Poor man ! Poor mind ! Poor business ! Such economy 
of time is marvelous, for an hour later this very man is sitting for hours, after 
the theater, playing cards and drinking cocktails. 








Did you ever see a near-great photoplay, and then, when it was over, 
take a deep breath and say, "What a shame that a fine thing like that should 
be spoiled by such an apparent inconsistency!" Such things happen often, 
but all we can do is to keep on criticising and complaining. After all, there 
is nothing good, anywhere, that is not mixed with the bad. It is hard to 
pluck a rose without getting pricked, and it is hard to gather honey without 
getting stung. The good and the beautiful things are surrounded with safe- 
guards, and they all have their equivalent in evil. 

Automobilists are not the only people who have "tire trouble." Lots of 
other people have it. Algernon, take your foot off that brake ! 

"Let well enough alone" is the lazy comment of the conservatist. If 
everybody said this, there would be no improvement. Necessity is not the 
mother of invention, because most inventions have come thru the desire to im- 
prove, and not thru compulsion. There is scarcely a single invention which 
could not even now be dispensed with, and certainly it is harder to dispense 
with a thing to which we are accustomed than with one which has not yet 
come into general use. The mind that fears change, and which does not crit- 
ically observe conditions with a view to improving, is a drone in the hive. 
Nothing is "good enough" unless it is the best. Change is the law of life and 
the eternal program of evolution. To let things alone is to let them decay and 
to baffle progress. The one unchangeable law, is the law of change. 

If you keep a record of the photoplays you see, you will find it a pleasant 
recreation, and a helpful one. Here is an idea : buy a n5te-book, rule it and 
title it thus : 




(Comedy, drama, etc.) 


Leading characters 

Principal players 


Principal scenes 


Merit per cent. 

■J If the play has appeared in this magazine, make a note of it, and of the 

date of the issue. A good way to mark a play as to merit, is to use numbers 
from one to ten, one meaning extremely bad, or worst ; ten meaning very fine, 
or perfect ; five, medium ; nine, very excellent ; two, very bad, and so on. The 
book should be carried to the photoshow, for it is necessary to write the titles 
as soon as they appear on the screen ; otherwise, they will be forgotten. Your 
criticisms and other details may be written later. 






Look over the list of popular players, and you will discover that nearly 
every one has a pleasing smile. Very few become popular who have not a 
pleasing personality, and nothing gives a pleasing personality so much as a 
sunshiny countenance. A good smile, and the battle for popularity is half won. 

If you think that our language should not be simplified in spelling, just 
ask a foreigner to read aloud the following : 

Though the tough cough and hiccough plough me through. 
O'er life's dark lough my course I still pursue. 

It will be observed that otigh is therein pronounced in seven different ways : 
o, uff, off, up, ow, 00 and och. ^ 

The photoplay's the thing! It can do all that the drama can do, and do it 
in less time. Furthermore, it can do it all over the world at the same time, and 
with the same players. It can amuse, entertain, uplift, enlighten, educate, 
stimulate and ennoble. It can bring a tear, a sigh, a groan, a laugh, a frown, 
all in a half -hour. It can tell a whole book, chapter by chapter, scene by scene, 
all in an hour. Yes, the play's the thing, as Shakespeare says, and yet some 
managers insist on adulterating their programs with cheap vaudeville. Such 
managers must be in their second childhood. A child will often discard beauti- 
ful, educating toys, such as blocks, books and dolls, for an old tin pan and a 
spoon, and these managers imagine that sensible people would prefer to see 
painted women and effeminate men playing coon songs on sleighbells, pots, 
kettles and jew's-harps, to photodramas by our master companies. Shades of 
Thespis, Aristophanes, Shakespeare and Edison ! 



He who is pleased to find fault, is usually displeased to find perfection. 

The first dramatic representations known in Europe were devotional 
pieces, acted by the monks, in the churches of their monasteries, representative 
of the life and acts of the Saviour and of His apostles. And now comes the 
Kalem Company with " Prom the Manger to the Cross. " History repeats itself . 


There is one thing that American actors and actresses need more than 
anything else, and it is something that is apparently not taught in this country, 
and not learnt. I refer to grace culture. The foreign players have it almost to 
excess. They are all action, all movement, all gesture, all grace. They move 
about, and bow, and walk, and sit, and make gestures with an easy grace that 
seems born in them. We Americatis have not yet learnt the art of gracefulness. 
Somebody has said that grace is the outcome of inward harmony ; but whether 
so or not, it is certain that most of us could easily and quickly learn to express 
grace outwardly, whether we have it inwardly or not. A beautiful face or 
form is much, but without grace of movement they are very much like an 
unfinished, unframed painting. The libraries are full of books on grace culture, 
and if our players would read them more, perhaps they would soon take on that 
outward appearance of elegance that so distinguishes the foreigners. 

A Tale of the French Settlers 

The prize puzzle contest closed on the second of October, as was announced, and, 
as usual, the last week brought a flood of entries. It has required many hours of careful 
work to read the thousands of answers that came in, and to tabulate the results, but 
the satisfaction we felt In knowing that so many of our readers have been interested 
in the contest has made the task a pleasure. 

The prize-winners are as follows : 

FIRST — Louise L. P.\ckard, 83 Lancaster Street, Albany, N. Y. 
' SECOND — Grace Moob, 710 Hickoey Street, Niles, Michigan. 
THIRD— E. SissiNGH, 406 43i) Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 
FOURTH — Sophie Northrop, 1812 Princess Street, Wilmington, N. C. 
FIFTH — C. M. Anderson, 808 Macon Street, Brookly-n, N. Y. 
SIXTH — Maby Hull, 116 S. Hopkins Street, Saybe, Pa. 

The following contestants deserve honorable mention, their lists having come very 
close to the winning lists : 

Kate C. Young, Aurora, 111. ; Elmer Lawrence, Dansville, N. Y. ; J. W. Summers, 
Youngstown, Ohio; M. G. Jones, Brooklyn, N. Y. ; Dorothy Reichenbacker, Honesdale; 
Pa. ; Rose M. Bliss, Niles, Mich. ; Clarice E. Patterson, Bangor, Me. ; Louise Steinberg, 
Washington, D. C. ; W. W. Warner, Oakland, Cal. ; May B. Martin, Baltimore, Md. ; 
Nellie Overend, Chattanooga, Tenn. ; Charlotte Wheeler, Crown Point, Ind. ; Gladys 
Calhoun, Kent, Wash. ; Helen Emerson, Yonkers, N. Y. ; May Law, Philadelphia, Pa. ; 
Herman W. Hickler, Buffalo, N. Y. ; Ethel Fawcett, Avalon, Pa.; Herbert Spitz, New 
York City ; Thos. L. Wheelis, Orlando, Fla. ; Ray Parker, Staten Island, N. Y. ; Mary 
Stover, Wilmington, N. C. ; Maurice Phipps, Reading, Pa. ; Edith Seaver, Mansfield, 
Miss. ; Adelaide Blake, Portsmouth, Ohio ; Beulah Pomeroy, Edgerton, Wis. ; Ruby E. 
Stanley, Prewsburg, N. Y. ; Edythe Gittinger, Pikesville, Md. 

Next to these is a list too long to print, as it contains the names of nearly a thou- 
sand contestants who came within five names of the prize-winners. 

So it will be seen that the race was a close and a merry one. From hundreds of 
contestants came letters stating that the fun derived from puzzling over the baflSing 
blanks was ample reward for their effort. 

Steve Talbot, of Philadelphia, Pa., sent in a dainty little booklet, containing the 
prize story in typewritten form, with the picture of an actor or actress pasted into 
each blank space. This was so neatly and cleverly gotten up that we are awarding it 
a special prize, altho the number of spaces correctly filled did not place the story quite 
in the winning class. 

We extend to the winners our hearty congratulations on their clever work ; to all 
the other contestants, our thanks for their interest and a hearty invitation to Join in 
the new contest. 

I Only Saw Her Hat 


I paid my dime and took a seat. 

But there before me sat 
A lady with an ostrich plume — 

I only saw her hat. 
I think the first was comedy; 

The second was "Wild Pat" ; 

The third, I think was Pathfi's— but, 

I only saw her hat. 
The fourth was one of Dickens, and 

The people spoke of Nat ; 
The fifth, I did not see the name, 

I only saw her hat. 


The Tremolo Touch 


THE Tremolo Touch is an inhereni; 
emotionalism essential to suc- 
cess in Literature, Music, Art 
and the Drama. It is the plaintive ap- 
peal that twitches the heart-strings of 
audiences at Moving Picture theaters, 
and, hence, the Tremolo Touch is 
longingly sought for hy director, 
actor and photoplaywright. 

The Tremolo Touch nestled momen- 
tarily to the heart and mind of the 
director who staged Vitagraph's 
' ' Vanity Fair. ' ' The Touch was wel- 
comed in the "big scene," a situation 
that in convincing emotionalism, and 
dramatic tenseness, in my estimation, 
has never been surpassed in Film- 
land. Unsophisticated Rawdon Craw- 
ley went home. He saw Becky Sharp 
in the arms of Lord Steyne, fiction's 
bird of prey. Was it hypnotic power 
that compelled the senile lord to gaze 
spellbound at the apparition there in 
the doorway ? Was it an unseen hand 
that turned Becky's lovely head and 
fastened her horrified gaze upon the 
accusing figure of her husband, whom 
she had believed behind prison bars? 
No, it was the Tremolo Touch ! 

Slowly, Rawdon Crawley comes for- 
ward; slowly the guilty couple arise 
from the seat. The hypnotic eyes never 
waver. Here is a tense situation, a 
realistic atmosphere, surcharged with 
dread possibilities. It's the Tremolo 
Touch — ^the indefinable something so 
elusive, but so welcome to the artistic 
sense and soul. 

The scene continues inexorably to 
its logical end. There is no diversion, 
no reaction. The action is beyond 
power of direction; the principals in 
the east are now living, that situation. 
What will Rawdon Crawley do? 
Actors and audience know, but they 
are carried along, breathlessly, to the 
conclusion. Thej"^ are all under the 
sway of the Tremolo Touch, and all 
would have it so, for they recognize its 
presence and welcome its temporary 
power. And, when the "big scene" 
is done, there is a long, audible sigh. 

Upon three occasions have I heard the 
fluttering, sobbing sigh greet the 
scenic ending. The tension is over ; 
the play is logically concluded; the 
audience cares little for what follows, 
because the Tremolo Touch has 

Many Photoplay stars, whose work 
you admire, have the Tremolo Touch 
to a more or less degree. It is the 
secret of good Photoplay acting. Act- 
ing is a mystery. It cannot be taught, 
and it cannot be learnt. Fine acting 
produces a certain effect — ^just as a 
certain effect is produced by an artis- 
tic painting, or an appealing refrain. 
Why? No one can explain. Actors 
will tell you, sometimes, that they 
know how it is done; that a certain 
cause in a Photoplay produces a cer- 
tain effect. They think they know, 
but do they ? Do they know why some 
inspired action makes a certain scene 
convincing and gripping, when the 
best efforts of director and actors in 
many other Photoplays go for naught ? 
No one knows. It's the Tremolo 
Touch. What makes great musicians, 
painters, writers ? Not the tools with 
which they work ; countless other men 
work with the same tools in vain. It's 
the intimate, personal touch. Call it 
genius, or insanity, or what you will, I 
call it the Tremolo Touch, the power 
to endow the particular medium thru 
which you are trying to express your- 
self, with truth, sincerity, conviction 
and sympathy. And, even behind all 
these, another ingredient enters — a 
sixth sense which is given to no mor- 
tal to perceive. 

When a Photoplay rouses some orig- 
inal thought in your mind ; when, un- 
consciously, tears spring into your 
eyes, or you are incited to an unaf- 
fected laugh; when you leave the 
Moving Picture theater with heart 
and mind intertwined — ^just believe 
me when I assert that another Photo- 
play has "gone over," and that you 
have been entertaining the Ti"emolo 
Touch unawares ! 


^^HWdwS ^gjssjmm sif? 



THE popularity of this department far surpassed our anticipations. So 
many of our esteemed readers have favorite plays and players to write 
about that we have decided to enlarge the department. Even now, we 
cannot hope to publish a one-hundredth part of the verses, appreciations and 
criticisms that we receive, but we shall do the best we can. Neither can we 
acknowledge receipt of them, nor return those that are unavailable, nor pay 
for those that we accept. Those that we do not publish will not be wasted, 
however ; they will be sent to the players themselves, so that they may enjoy 
them as we have. 

Many original and interesting ideas for contests have been received. 
Prom D. S. Alves, of San Francisco, and Alina M. Parisette, of Brooklyn, 
come requests for a Beauty Contest, while Miss Esther Gordon, New 
York City, puts in a plea for the boy and girl actors to be given a chance to 
prove their popularity. A Picture Players' Name Contest, the prize going to 
the "fan" sending in the longest list of names, is suggested by George H. 
Haekathorne, of Pendleton, Ore. H. K. Cramer, Lexington, Ky., suggests that 
the readers of The Motion Picture Story Magazine be permitted to select an 
All-Star Cast for a Photoplay to be selected by this magazine and published 
therein, the players to be picked for his or her ability to play the part. Mr. 
Thomas Graves, Helena, Ark., sympathizing with the Inquiry Editor, suggests 
a contest of Foolish Questions, favoring, as a prize, a fool's cap and bells. 
Miss Annie French, from her home in Winthrop, Me., sends kindly and com- 
plimentary lines on the pleasure she derives from this magazine, and suggests 
a contest, featuring the couples who do the best team work, mentioning Alice 
Joyce and Carlyle Blackwell as an example. Miss Estella A. Geiger, Buffalo, 
N. Y., wants a chance to vote for the "most expressive actors," while the 
unknown "Extras" (Supers?) have a champion in Mrs. Helen Moore, of 
New York City. Alfred Weirs, 115 Chambers Street, New York City, writes 
that he would like to vote for "the best story that appears in the magazine for 
a certain number of months, and then the writer who has the greatest number 
of votes, after the votes be added together, receive the prize." 

From far-off Auckland, New Zealand, Mr. Arch Burns writes an interest- 
ing letter, telling us, among other valued bits of information, that in New Zea- 
land the American-made pictures are esteemed more highly than either the 
English or European films. Mr. Burns thinks a contest to determine the 
popularity of the different film companies would prove popular. 

We regret that limited space prevents the publishing of many worthy 
contributions. Tributes have been received for the following favorites : Miss 
Marion Leonard and Miss Marguerite Snow, from Sampsen Tement, Lona- 
coning, Md. Arthur Johnson, from Flo Newstadt, Brooklyn ; Miss Mamie 
Hippie, Columbia, Pa., and Rhoda Wright, Yonkers, N. Y. 

Miss Beverly Bayne, from "Tomie." 

Mr. Guy Coombs, from Miss Virginia Whitney, Norwich, Conn. 

Alice Joyce, from Bud Lang, San Francisco ; Miss Lydia Anton, N. Y. C. ; 




Francis Hutchinson, Washington, D. C. ; Allen Spencer, Miss Beatrice Alte- 
mus, Philadelphia, and Miss Helen Bowbin, Chicago. 

Miss Edith Storey, from John Tapley, Jackson, Miss. 

Frank E. Maxey mounts Pegasus, and soars into rarefied air in an enthu- 
siastic ode to ' ' The Photoplay. ' ' 

Carlyle Blackwell is announced a favorite by Ruby Garing, Flagstaff, 
Ariz., also by Harold H. Hanson, Gloucester, Mass. The latter, in company 
with Florence Mahon, San Francisco, and Laura E. Knox, Wakefield Junc- 
tion, Mass., eulogizes Maurice Costello. 

Gene Gauntier receives poetical applause from Clarence Festerly, Can- 
ton, 0., as does Gilbert Anderson from V. L. K. and "A Jersey Admirer"; 
Yale Boss from Miss Mary Deacon, San Francisco; James Cruze from Miss 
Mary Herzig, Roxbury, Mass. ; Mary Fuller from Vera Gilfgott, Boston, 
Mass., and Mr. Kerrigan from E. M. K., Tarentum, Pa. 

Mrs. H. C. Edwards, Muncie, Ind., proclaims Bunny, Alice Joyce, Lillian 
Walker, Adele DeGarde, Florence Turner and Mary P^uller her choice. 

,V'-'C^-.The following verses speak for themselves — and for the writers thereof: 

stands for Me.vers, McDennott, too, 

A is for Anderson, always true blue ; 

U for Urelle, with Gaumont he plays, 

R for George Reehni, a favorite always. 

I is for Ince, a fine Abe in tlie show, 

C stands for Carlyle — Blackwell, you know ; 

E that is Earle — it is Williams we mean ; 

C is for Chairman, oft seen on the screen. 

O without doubt it Is Olcott you see, 

S stands for Santley ; Fred quite pleases nie. 

T tell me, pray, now which is the best? 

E easy? No, let us leave all the rest. 

L look now, and find, pray, my Photoshow treasure, 

L look, he's an actor who's fine beyond measure; 

O h, it's a puzzle to pick out this fellow. 
Read top to bottom — you have it — Costello. 


By a Motion Picture Fiend. 
'Twas in the merry month of June, 
The hour was twelve — precisely noon — 
Sweet Alice Joyce was going away. 
Our skies seemed cheerless and cold and gray. 

Selma, Ala. 

The gay town of Los Angeles, 
By her presence had been blessed. 
She was leaving for New York town; 
Even there she had won renown. 

Dear, sweet, beautiful Alice, 
You are fit to reside in a palace. 
And until you return to this beautiful State, 
We'll anxiously your arrival await. 
Los Angeles, Cal. 


C. M. Pelleobin. 

When on the magic sheet 
I catch his eye's bright beams, 

I soar above this world of sighs 
Into the land of dreams. 

For there, before me, moves 
An actor, fine and brave; 

Each part he plays with skill — 

The happy, sad or grave. 
New York. 

How gentle he can be 

With children small and bright! 
And how he scores the villain 

For his lapses from the right! 

Who is this wondrous actor. 
Who steals our hearts away? 

His name is Francis Bushman, 
And he plays with Essanay. 

Anna Wbight. 



Miss Lula M. Lumbert, Hyannis, Mass., calls attention to the fact that the 
Photoshows provide entertainment for youths who formerly idled about the 
streets : 

I-) > .^''■' I've often been out on the streets at night, 
^^ And, to my surprise, would see such a sight. 
'^ .But now, since the Photosliow came into town, 
f. .-^^ -^ The boys have improved — they no longer hang 'round ; 
yin\V\ '^x They go to the Photoshow 'most every night, 
>•-* . * And sit 'til the manager bids them good-night. 

Charles "W. Sullivan writes entertainingly from New Orleans of his ex- 
periences while visiting picture shows in the South. He tells of going to a 
Photoshow with a gentleman, who, after watching the screen in silence for a 
time, remarked: "I reckon they must have people act for them, as I've seen 
that girl's face before." He imagined that the strenuous camera-man simply 
chased down exciting incidents, photographing them as they occurred. 

Out of a score of verses indited to charging Mary Pickford, we offer : 

We watch the poster every day, 

And often feel contrary. 
Because we do not see the name — 

Our favorite, little Mary. . . 

South Bend, Ind. D. B. P. 

"Violet" sends greetings to "Mr. Maurice Costello, king of them all, who 
captivated the people years ago, and still holds them in his thrall. Stars may 
come, and stars may go, and we care not, so long as we have Maurice Costello, 
who is able to please both the high and the low. He who can make the mil- 
lionaire envious, and can make the poor forget their troubles." 

Isn't it fortunate that, "having eyes we see not," as others see?::r-else 
would the laurel wreaths all be placed on one brow, to the discomfort, doubt- 
less, of the owner of the brow. "Mina" prefers Mr. Richard Neill above all 
the other favorites, tuning her harp in Toronto, and sending in these lines to 
"dashingR.R. Neill": 

The cleverest man that can Edison claim 

Is Richard K. Neill, of Photoplay fame. 

In Vancouver I've seen him, and also in Maine, 

And I hope that some day i shall see him again. 

Pittsburg has some picture "fans" as well as smoke and millionaires : 

Florence Lawrence is quite charming, with her manner sweet and shy. 
And Alice Joyce is pretty, this no one can deny ; 
Dolores Cassinelli is a beauty, as I live. 

And think of sweet Ruth Roland, and the pleasure she can give. 
And there is Mary Fuller, with her naughty, little frown, 
I go to see her every time I hear that she's in town. 
But there is one girl that I know, with her none can compare, 
With her soulful eyes and wistful, and her wealth of raven hair ; 
She has loveliness appealing, and the sweetest face I've seen, 
Her name is Florence Turner ; she's my Motion Picture queen. 
Pittsburg, Pa. Miss H. Claib. 


Dear, sweet, lovely Marguerite Snow, 
Not one can compare with thee, I know; 
:.• With face so divine, you all graces combine, 

May God keep and bless thee, sweet Marguerite Snow. 

Bellville, Ont 

{Continued on page 162.) 

Hilda Ackebill. 

He Forgot That They Were Only Motion Pictures 

^rrwmy tuose poortf<JcyolfS^ 
< \ curMa so ^^^JPC-'i^f, ^ 




This department is for the answering of questions of general Interest only. Involved tech- 
nical questions will not be answered. Information as to matrimonial and personal matters 
of the players will not be given. A list of all film makers will be supplied to all who enclose 
a stamped and self-addressed envelope. No questions answered relating to Biograph 
players. Those who desire early replies may enclose a stamped and self-addressed envelope for 
answer by mail. Write only on one side of paper, and use separate sheets for questions in- 
tended for different departments of this magazine. Always give name of company when 
inquiring about plays. If subscribers give name and address and write "Subscriber" at top 
of letter, their queries will be given a preference. 

M. M. H. — We'll find out for you right away whether Earle Williams can swim; 
wait a minute. 

J. L. H., Garden City. — The Edison Home projection machine is now on the mar- 
ket The price ranges from $60 upward, according to the form of illumination em- 
ployed, these being acetylene gas, Nernst lamps or an automatic arc, the last two 
taking current from the usual house-wiring. The films cost from $2.50 to $5, according 
to length, and are exchangeable at the factory on payment of a small fee if in good 
condition. In time it is probable that exchange stations will be provided thruout the 
country. The standard width film is used, but on this width are three rows of pictures, 
so that a subject running as long as a standard thousand-foot reel occupies only about 
80 feet of film. Standard film cannot be used, both on account of size and the different 
manner of perforating. A picture four feet wide by three high can be thrown by the arc. 

Patricia. — The prettiest Biograph player was not Idlled about a year ago. Per- 
sistent rumor had it that way, but we insisted upon saVing her life. Give the name of 
a part the Edison player has acted lately and we'll fit a name to him, but "sometimes 
plays the villain" is a bit too vague with six companies to pick from each with one 
or more villainous actors. 

K. C. B.— Miss May Buckley, now in "He Fell in Love with His Wife," is the former 
Lubin player. 

Kalem Admirer. — ^There are no special release days for certain sections of the 
Kalem or other companies. There may be two Glendales one week and none the next. 
It is understood that Mr. Blackwell will remain with the Glendale section. 

Flossie. — We appreciate your change to illustrated postcards for stationery, but 
we hope there is no hidden meaning in your choice of subjects. Since the Answers 
Man recently admitted matrimony in these pages your choice of orange blossoms and 
lemons miglit be regarded as inspired. Your questions are all answered above. 

L. A., New York City. — We do not know of any Western section importing its 
riders from New York. No chance for you. Miss Snow is in Thanhouser pictures 
"any more." She was doing some specials and appeared in but two in September. In 
October she is in five. It happens that way in all companies. "The Texan Twins" is an 
exceptionally fine piece of trick photography. Mr. Wilbur played both twins. Henry 
Walthall and Miss Jane Fearnley had the leads in Reliance's "The Yeggman." We can- 
not name Gaumont players. It is a foreign company. 

PiGY W. — "Saved by the Telephone" and the "Suffragette Sheriff" are Kalems. 
Miss Alice Joyce played the leads. We do not know Mrs. Costello's maiden name. 

M. V. C. — Reliance was working in Palensville this summer. We believe the Vita 
was made in and near the home studio. Laura Sawyer had the lead in "For Valor." 

M. S., Mobile. — See answer to Flossie. Miss Mayme Kelso was Mrs. Burleigh in 
"The Street Singer." She was not in the cast of "Human Hearts." We have not Miss 
Snow's stage record. Miss Jane Wolfe had the title in Kalem's "Norma of Norway." 

M. P., Philadelphia. — We told Bunny what you said about his taking a bath in 
those tiny English bawth tubs and he denied, with a pained smile, that it was that which 
drove him back home. 

Miss T., New York City. — Of all the foolish lies about photoplayers that we have 
heard circulated, the one you inquire about is the worst The rumor is unfounded. 

Flossie. — ^The reason Crane Wilbur doesn't act with Miss Pearl White any more is 
that she is working in Crystal films, after having been placed, by rumor, with Comet. 
Miss Frances Cummings was in Lubin's "Lost Dog." You dont have to sign your letter 
"From a Fan." We know it by now. 

F. J. S., Pittsburgh. — The exhibitor who gets nothing but commercial film is usually 
paying the commercial price. He is not supposed to show M61i6s films with an Independ- 
ent program, but some exchanges have a number of old Licensed subjects that they use to 
fill out with. Sometimes these are purchased in England and shipped back, sometimes 
some dishonest employee of a Licensed exchange or Licensed house takes them, or they 
may have been on the market before the Patents Company was formed. 



■ J. S., Keeseville. — Possibly Robert Burns would let you have one of those curls if 
you asked him, but we doubt it. He is with Vita in Los Angeles. You cannot get 
Licensed and Independent subjects on the some program. 

QuiTA, MouNE. — Glad you've gotten acquainted with us at last. You've missed 
a lot, meantime. The Thanhouser Kid is Marie Eline. Miss Mabel Trunnelle was the 
girl in Majestic's "The Moth and the Butterfly" and "The Game of Chess." Her oppo- 
site was Herbert Prior. Both are old Edison players. John Adolfl was in Eclair last 
we heard. Jack C!onway was Jim in Nestor's "Hard Luck Bill." Miss Vivian Rich 
had the title in the same company's "Maude MttUer." If you want to know "lots and lots 
more" let's have it on the Instalment plan, please, and always let us have company as 
well as play and part. 

C. H. E. A., Falmouth. — William Todd and Frederick Church were the two Mexi- 
cans in "The Sheriff and His Man." We do not know the nationality of Mr. Anderson's 
forebears. The magazine is out about the 15th or 20th of each month. John Bunny is 
about five feet six or eight (tall, not wide). Victor makes one release a week, on Fri- 
days. We get no casts for C. G. P. C, which are of foreign origin. 

Flossie. — Charles Clary had the title role in Selig's "Officer Murray." We have 
absolutely no opinion as to the beauty of James Morrison's nose. We dont even recall 
whether it is a pug or an old Roman. That "darling" Lubin man is Edgar Jones. 

Pat for Short. — The "cute fellow" on page 59 of the October issue is Charles Comp- 
ton. We do not give addresses, but if you hang around the gate of the Selig studio long 
enough you're likely to see Al Ernest Garcia. 

H. H. S., Columbus. — ^The Answers Man appreciates your kind words. We dont 
know that Flossie ever wrote a photoplay, but if she ever does we bet she puts Crane 
Wilbur in it. The Motion Pictures shown in Cuba, to which the article in The Theatre 
makes reference, are mostly produced In France, Germany and Italy. There is no 
censorship abroad, and some of the films shown in public in Germany and the Latin 
countries are unbelievably vicious. The Blograph has never offered an official explana- 
tion of its unwillingness to give the names of Its players. Your suggested explanation 
is plausible. We are in sympathy with your plea for more pictures of Ameri- 
can cities and places of interest, but the exhibitors want photoplays, so the exchanges 
demand them, and the manufacturers meet the demand. We were talking the other 
day with B. Nichols, who handles Biograph, Kalem and Lubin for Europe, and he gives 
the gratifying information that abroad there is a growing demand for three and four- 
hundred-foot scenics that inevitably must find reflection over here. 

C. R., Palestine. — In Thanhouser's "The Merchant of Venice," Miss Flo La Badie 
was Portia and Miss Mignon Anderson Jessica. Miss Home was not cast. 

J. G. L., YoNKERS. — Miss Edna Fisher was opposite Mr. Anderson In "The Oath 
of His Office." Miss Lawrence heads her own company, "The Victor." 

Flossie. — What, again? The matter of photographs was explained on page 144 of 
the October issue, as you probably have seen, but remember that we are trying to please 
all. We are willing to admit that Ray Gallagher is simply adorable if it adds to your 
happiness. By the way, do you know that you are getting quite frequent? 

HiNKY Dink. — We refuse to believe that you are a regular actor. You spoil that 
statement by adding that you have money in the bank. The Mace Keystone fllms 
started releases September 23d. 

C. McC, Buffalo. — Frances Ne Moyer was Sally in Lubin's "Won at High Tide." 
Wanted. — Can any reader tell Mrs. J. H. P. about "The Vampire," an old fllm ? 
Mrs. J. H. P., Kelso. — Miss Jennie Nelson is with the home section of the Lubin 

Company in Philadelphia. The reason you see no California Lubins Is that none are 
made there now. The Los Angeles studio turned only out three or four. 

D. P., Dallas. — We have not the information you desire. 

H. E. M., Rochester. — King Baggot has no double. You refer to a recent picture 
in which he played two parts thru double exposures. 

J. Sam, Newport. — It was the late Mace Greenleaf who played in the Reliance 
with Miss Jane Fearnley. 

R. P. T. — We do not place the player you ask for. We were informed that Miss 
Gladys Field was going to join the Kalem Company, but we do not find her name in 
their casts. Ask something easier than when will Blograph questions be answered. It 
would be easier to name the next President. 

N. H., New Orleans. — Had not heard of Mr. Anderson's tenth anniversary before. 
It looks like a local press scheme. Possibly It's his tenth, year as a photoplayer. We 
do not know that Miss Mignon Anderson, of the Thanhouser, is his relative. There 
is no lieutenant cast in Bison's "The Lieutenant's Last Fight." William Clifford and 
Francis Ford had parts as officers. 

Esther, St. Louis. — In Thanhouser's "Treasure Trove" the banker was William Gar- 
wood and the sweethearts were Miss Mignon Anderson and E. J. Hayes. We do not 
know where it was made. James Cruze was the minister in 'Thanhouser's "The Finger 
of Scorn." We have not the cast for the American. Phillips Smalley has left Rejc 
go have Miss Weber, Miss Ridgley and Miss Leonard. 

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and small that it will go readily into a vest pocket, yes, and dainty enough 
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And the Vest Pocket Kodak is efficient. It is small, almost tiny, but the carefully selected 
meniscus achromatic lens insures good work ; the Kodak Ball Bearing shutter with iris diaphragm 
stops and Auto-time Scale give it a scope and range not found except in the highest grade cam- 
eras. Loads in daylight with Kodak film cartridges for eight exposures. Having a fixed focus it 
is always ready for quick work. Has reversible brilliant finder. Made of metal with lustrous black 
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An important feature is that the quality of the work' is so fine, the definition of the lens so 
perfect that enlargements may be easily made to any reasonable size, and at small cost — to post 
card size (3X * 5}i) for instance, at 15 cents. 



Flossie. — Positively we are ashamed of you for asking a Biograph question. Miss 
Marin Sais is with the Kalem section at Santa Barbara, where you will have to go if 
you wish to meet Miss Ruth Roland. And on top of that Biograph you ask about a 
man in a gray suit! Next time you do this to us we shall limit .vou to one question. 

R. Q., Washington. — Franklyn Hall was the husband In Lubin's "The Two-Gun 
Sermon." We do not place Mr. Sherwood at present. The enclosed picture did not get 
to the Answers Man. We have said before that Owen Moore is with Victor. 

J. E. T. — If your inquiries are as courteously phrased as your letter you need have 
no fear of being made. ridiculous. When the very evident Intention of a correspondent 
is to have fun with the Answers Man he returns the compliment, but he is more 
sinned against than sinning. Just as one example, if you could only read some of the 
weak imitations of Flossie that come In you would understand. Flossie seems to be 
sincere. The others are merely copy acts and unfunny because insincere. Ask all the 
questions in reason and we'll be delighted to reply. 

Sandcrab. — We give the news as it lies at the moment. Last week Hal Reid was 
directing for Champion. This week he is at the head of the Universal Weekly. We 
have not seen Wallace Reid cast lately. William Humphrey, the Napoleon of "The 
Bogus Napoleon," does not "always" play Napoleon, but he has made a hit with the 
character much as Ralph Ince has made Lincoln his other self. We do not think the 
two Cassinellis are the same. 

Flossie. — ^The "fellow" is some class, as you suggest, but we cant place him from 
that half portion picture. 

J. J. C, Central Faixs. — We do not keep track of the authors of photoplays, but 
Shannon Fife writes most of the Buster stories for the Lubin Company. We do not 
place the author of the PathC. As a matter of fact it is seldom that the author is 
really the author of the produced play. By the time the editor and director are done 
little is left, and more than once an author has seen his play and has not recognized it. 
Leaders and letters are taken by a special camera. There are several ways. A printed 
card may be photographed for a negative, or the card may be photographed as a positive, 
jn which case white letters appear black, or vice versa. Some companies make a lantern 
slide and make the insert from that. In any case the material is cut into the proper 
lengths, the scene is cut and the inserted part cemented in with acetone cement. As a 
general thing photoplay theaters run three or four reels at a performance, tho some 
houses offer as many as ten. We think that five reels should be the limit. We saw 
5,800 feet the other afternoon and it tired us. Eight without a stop Is almost a torture. 

Bebt a. — Julia Swayne Gordon and Tefft Johnson were the two players you mean 
in "Lady of the Lake" (Vitagraph). Helen Costello is about twelve. There were 
several girls with Alice Joyce in "Rube Marquard Wins." Howard Missimer played 
opposite Eleanor Blanchard in "Cupid's Quartette." The child In "Broncho Billy's 
Gratitude" is not in the cast. We do not know whether Francis Bushman plays a 
violin or not. Of your eleven questions, the last one is the most difficult. In spite 
of our complete card index system, colossal flies, we are unable to say whether or not 
the favored Flossie C. P. would be willing to correspond with a "black-haired young 
man like yourself." 

F. L. G. — Instead of "The Price of Vanity" you mean "The Lure of Vanity." 
Ralph Ince had the lead. 

T. G., Muskogee. — Ruth Roland was Tillie Temple in "The Beauty Parlor of Stone 
Gulch." Wallace Reid was the city lover In "The Course of True Love." 

1093 B. — Donald Mackenzie was the father in "The Little Wanderer." 

H. E. M. — Virginia Chester was the daughter of the sheriff in "The Frenzy of Fire- 
water." Paths wont tell. Mae Marsh was the sister to Bob in "Kentucky Girl." 

A 1040-10, Brooklyn. — ^There is a flrst-class Independent Theater on Fulton Street, 
near Flatbush Avenue. 

H. H., Washington Heights. — Bessie Eyton was the Island Maid in "The Love 
of an Island Maid" (Selig). 

A. L. CoPELAND. — Sirs: Arthur Mackley was the mother of the child in "The 
Littlest Sheriff." The child is unknown. Pauline Bush was Mary Waldron, Marshall 
Neilon was the cripple brother in "The Will of James Waldron" (American). 

A. U. — King Baggot and Jane Feamley were Amy and Jim in "Old Tennessee" 
(Imp). Mildred Bracken is Mary, and Florence La Vina is Frances in "The Will of 
Destiny." Mildred Bracken was Bee in "The Cowboy Kid." Crane Wilbur played in 
"A Ranch Romance." 

La Petite. — Jane Fearnley played opposite King Baggot in "A Cave Man's Wooing." 

G. G. G., Cincinnati. — Path6 Freres will not give us the information. 

Pauline F. — Guy Coombs was the son in "The Spartan Mother." Romaine Field- 
ing was the half-breed in "The Half-breed's Treachery." 

An American I^\'er. — Jack Richardson was the bandit, Pauline Bush was the 
girl, and Warren J. Kerrigan was the lover in "A Life for a Kiss" (American). 

M. F., Cablyle. — Helen Costello is the older of the two. Other questions answered. 

S. L.— Marie Eline (Thanhouser Kid) was Alice in "The Cry of the Children." 

Price 25 Cents a Dozen. 60 Cents a Set 


I Miss Florence Turner 2 Mr. Maurice Costello 3 Mr. Leo Delaney 4 Miss Edith 
Halleren 5 Miss Flora Finch 6 Kenneth Casey 7 Miss Edith Storey 8 Miss Rose E. 
Tapley 9 Mr. Maurice Costello 10 Mr. Earle Williams U Mr. John Bunny 
J2 "Eagle Eye" J3 Mr. Chas. Kent J 4 Miss Clara Kimball Young JSAdelede 
Garde 16 " Eagle Eye " 17 Miss Anne Schaefer 18 Mr. Charles Eldridge J9 Mr. 
Tom Powers 20 Mr. William Shea 21 Miss Norma Talmadge 22 Miss Rosemary 
Theby 23 Mr. Van Dyke Brooke 24 Miss Julia Swayne Gordon 25 Miss Lillian 
Walker 26 Mr. James W. Morrison 27 Mr. Ralph Ince 28 Miss FlorenceTurner 
29 Mr. John Bunny 30 Miss Zena Kiefe 3J Jean (Vitagraph Dog) 32 Mrs. Mary 
Maurice 33 Mr. Tefft Johnson 34 Mr. Harry Morey 35 Mr. Robert Gaillord 
36 Miss Leah Baird 37 Mr. W. V. Ranoos 38 Mrs. Kate Price 39 Mr. Marshall 
P. Wilder 40 Mr. Wm. Humphrey 



•D.^.iSiV'ifJ/^X.-r^Mr. -Joseph' %ei6hart was the leading man in "Tlie Wooing of 
-White'-5B'a,wn." -; r';« ••'-;/ a-' 

P.*:A^- Sl^bSfles ^lii^5K*S' j4^ in "The Girl and the Cupola." 

L. Jli. ELkirs.— Hiirry Benham'^ was the country sweetheart in "Blossom Time." 

MovipHAN. — ^The camera is at fault. Xou are right Jni your presumption. Your Bio- 
graph and Path6 questions we cannot answer. 

Ft. Dodge, La. — Lubin cannot tell us who^^nio was in "The Seiiorita's Renjorse." 

VioLETTA. — Flo La Badie and Harry Ben^^ had thfe'leads in "A Portrait of Queen 
Anne" (Thanhouser). „4 *-^^ •- .-' 

Doiujgwjd^J^liillian Walker is with-^Mgraph; afliJ^'Francis Bushman is.with the 
Essanay 60.; PatiV Panzer was the escaped convict m '*M. Stern Destiny." We do not 
thinlc any girl hatf killed herself for Harry Myers yet. The clipping is not of Harry. 

Mojii^E T., BrfONx.-j-It was not alHce Joyce tliat was operated upon for appendicitis, 
but AnnA'vjJilsson. --Both aire actinif for tb.e l^^lem Co. 

'Port, b.^Janej^jfe. wflg" Mi*. "Suinmr^rs in "The Wandering Musician." Other 
questions ,an§i^erea jaETof^es?-- 

H. J. CoBSON. — Wr'ite tqt Be,oiIy of Lubinville as to why Lottie Briscoe never wears 
her hat On straight. ' ,Xt)ur other suggestions are good. 

'M. ALEXANDER.— afta^-^Sjhagiier-vfae^he leading man In "The Cowboy Kid." Dolores 
Cassinelli'pl^s in th^.Baslerh- 'Essanay Co.. Other questions above. 

Helen. — The rather "short man with the black hair and short" "black mustache 
and a very high nose" must ite- Arthur Mackley. > 

"Nobody." — ^The:jpicturji' you send us is Lillian Walker. 

RUB.Y G., ABizoisA.^-"i|jerod and the New-born King" was made by the Eclipse Co. 

J. H. PECK.-^Rouiii'inS.'^Fielding was the mall-carrier in "In the Drifts," and he also 
played in "TJje Soldler':p'Iteturn." We cannot place the player you mean. 

E..MvFl6ry.— Jtobert Gaillord was Big Bill in "The Barrier That Was Burned." 
Laura Sawyer. waS'iSelen in "Relief of Lucknow." 

A. ■JocA.-^"A Tale of Two Cities" was in the May, 1911, issue. - 

M.'' fi.' H., Brooklyn. — The reason we do not publish the pictures of people who 
pose for song slides is that we have all we can do to take care of the people who pose 
for Moving Pictures. 

E. B. — Joseph De Grasse was Ralph in "Jealousy on the Ranch" (Path6 Fr6res). 

F. H. E. T. — Guy Coombs was Joe in "Soldier Brothers of Susanna." We do not 
sell photographs. 

W^-C. E.-^Arthur Johnson still acts, and he also directs. 

;FRkNx P. — Send $1.65 for. a Talbot book, "How Moving Pictures Are Made and 
Worked.-' -See ad. .■ ir ^'-'^ ; =• 

V. L. K. — ^Dwight Mead was" the disSattisfled clerk, in "The Legacy of Happiness." 

Inez N., Brooklyn.— iDont- worry about over-taxing my generosity. John Bunny 
is the only real name he has. No Information whatever on Biograph. 

Mary C. — Alice Joyce is not' marfle^.ip Rube Marquatd. 'You shouldn't be asking 
such questions, anyway. HStry Morey '*as Dick in "Tlie Barrier That Was Burned." 

P. STONE.-^ijfay Buckley is on the stage agiain. Mrs.' Costello acts once in a while. 

C. N. B. — ^Your questions all went in the waste-basket. We are pleased to state 
that Mrs. J. Arthur Mackley played the part of the mother in the following: "The 
Loafer's Mother," "Broncho Billy and the Girl," and "The Story of Montana." 

C. H. 902. — The only engagement we know of at present that Alice Joyce has is 
to the Kalem Co. Signorita Francesca Bertini was Juliet in "Romeo and Juliet." 

A. E. E. — Leonie Flugrath and Robert Tansey had the leads in "The Street Beauti- 
ful" (Edison). You can secure back numbers. December, 1911, the first chat 
■} J. A., Gal. — ^Florence Turner is not married. See chat in October issue. 

Mr. Joseph. — We dont know where you may secure passes to visit Motion Picture 
studios. Cannot help you on your other question. 

The 'Rah 'Bah Giri^. — Get United Sta,tes stamps. 

"Unknown." — Please sign your name. Mary Fuller was the daughter in "An In- 
surgent Senator." 

1044 J. — Number, please? Send stamped, addressed envelope for list of manu- 
facturers. Miss Lawrence has light brown hair. 

145 X., Lancaster. — "S." stands for Spoor, and "A." for Anderson" (Essanay). 

HiMMELHEiMER. — Dout kuow how many Indians Bison 101 has. Others out of order. 

E. C. H., St. Lotns. — Edgar Jones was the minister in "The Two-Gun Ceremony." 
Fred O'Beck was the bartender. Bryant Washburn was the young man in "Out of 
the Depths." Marion Leonard .had the lead in Rex's "Thru Flaming Gates." Edward 
Coxen had the lead in "Thru the Hills." 

P. W. F. — Winnifred Greenwood had the lead in "The Blonde" (Selig). Edna 
Payne had the lead in "The Half-breed's Treachery." 

H. W., Brooklyn. — Ralph Mitchell had the lead in Kalem's "A Mardi-Gras Mix-up." 

Marq., M. G. — William Todd was the sheriff in "The Story of Montana." Alice 
Joyce was the colonel's daughter in "The Gun Smugglers." 


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You can write them. We teach beginners in ten 
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Here are a few of tlieir plays : 

"Coronets and Hearts" . . Vitagraph 
"A Picture Idol" . . . Vitagraph 

''Insanity" . • • • • Lufain 
"NeTer Again" .... Kalem 
"The Red Trail" . . . Biograph 
"lola's Promise" . . . Biograph 

"The Timber Thieves" . . Edison 
"The Sheriff' .... Edison 
"The Fisher Maiden" . . Edison 
"A Wooden Indian" . . Edison 
"The Red Trail" . . . Biograph 
"His Brother" .... SeUg 
"The Lineman's Hope" . . Essanay 
"The Mysterious Caller" . Vitagraph 

"The Schoolmaster's Courtship" Vitagraph 
"Small Things They Forgot" . Edison 
"The Soldier's Sacrifice" . Vitagraph 
"The Proving of a Coward" . Selig 
"The Strike Breaker" . . Selig 
"Mrs. VanDusen's Diamonds" Kalem 
"Aunt Ann" .... Vitagraph 
If yon go into this work go into it right. You 
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J. H. H., GoLDFiELD, Nev. — Red Wing is a real Indian. Other questions answered. 

Girlie Umbiech. — Your otlier questions were probably answered before. Francis 
Bushman has no particular leading lady. 

C. P. W. — Arthur Johnson has been on the stage before acting in Moving Pictures. 

V. B., Pittsburg. — Vitagraph did not produce "The Prize Essay." 

Leslie Stud, Tucson. — Jane Wolfe was the gypsy in "Fantasca." William Clif- 
ford was Smiling Bob in the play by that title. William Duncan and Myrtle Stedman 
had the leads in "Double Cross." 

C. H. Selman. — "Uice and Old Shoes" was produced by Lubin Co. 

Anxious Fans. — Marguerite Snow was Barbara Drew in "East Lynne." Warren 
Kerrigan and Pauline Bush had the leads in "The Marauders." 

Elizabeth Baker. — Phyllis Gordon had the leading part in "The Lake of Dreams." 
. E. J. — Carlyle Blackwell was Jack Bernard in "The Daughter of the Sheriff." 
Harry Benham was the young man in "Big Sister." Darwin Karr and Fannie Simpson 
had the leads in "The Equine Spy" (Solax). Path6 wont answer. 

Texas Twins. — We have heard nothing of the kind about Vitagraph Company, and 
think the report is false. You should not ask questions about relationship. Raymond 
Hackett was the child in "A Child's Devotion" (Lubin). Bridget was John E. Bren- 
nan, Mrs. Clark was Ruth Roland in "Queen of the Kitchen" (Kalem). Ruth Roland 
and Marin Sais were the daughters in "In Peril of Their Lives." 

J. H. D., Portland. — The play you mention was a trick picture. They are done in 
different ways by various directors. If you have a copy of Talbot's book "How Moving 
Pictures Are Made and Worked," you will understand how almost anything is possible. 
Many manufacturers do not care to have the public know how they do these trick 

B. G., Chicago. — ^We cannot help you or any one else to get a position in any of the 
Moving Picture companies. We are afraid there is not much chance for you. 

Lloyd La Verge, L. — We do not know the reason Alice Joyce left Carlyle Blackwell ; 
supiwse Kalem wanted her in New York studio. We shall chat Warren Kerrigan soon. 
We'll also try to get a different picture of Maurice Costello. 

Marblehead. — The Imp Co. has always been an Independent Co. Vedah Bertram 
died of appendicitis. We haven't the name of the company that took the fall round-up 
on the Y-6 Ranch. 

Southern Lassie. — Edgar Jones and Clara Williams were the leads in "Trustee 
of the Law" (Lubin). 

R. C, Bloomington. — It would take up too much room to give you the list of plays 
you ask. Edwin August is Ormi Hawley's leading man now. William Humphrey and 
Clara Kimball Young had the leads in "The Money Kings" (Vitagraph). Leo Delaney 
is not with the Helen Gardner Company. 

B. R. M. — Clara Williams had the lead in "The Renegades" (Lubin). She formerly 
played opposite G. M. Anderson. 

K. B. E., Worcester. — Vivian Prescott had the lead in "Leah the Forsaken" (Imp). 
We only answer questions pertaining to Motion Pictures, not to the regular stage. 
Florence Turner and Maurice Costello, as a rule, play opposite. 

Flossie. — ^Texas Twins would like to correspond with you. Carlyle Blackwell has 
had several leading ladies ; try to think of the name of the play. We are glad you 
like some one else besides Crane. Yes, Augustus Phillips is "a fine player" ; you must 
not go "crazy about him." 

J. R., Wilmington. — Since you are a beginner, you had better learn the rules. Dont 
ask questions about marriage, relationship of players, ages, and Biograph questions. 

M. A. S., Northampton. — John R. Cumpson is with the Imp. Co. 

Sylvia S., Chicago. — We do not answer questions about the relationship of Florence 
Lawrence and Adelaide Lawrence. Because their names are alike, it does not follow 
that they are sisters. 

Bobby- P. B., Baltimore. — Vedah Bertram was the girl and Brinsley Shaw was the 
heavy in "Broncho Billy's Narrow Escape." 

Kenneth L., Hartford. — ^Raymond Hackett is the child you mean. He is a regular 
Lubin player. The proprietor of the theater in your town selects most of the pictures he 
wants, from the exchanges. 

C. E. I., Mobile. — Most fire scenes are of real fires. You mean Mary Pickford. 

S. E. H., Seattle. — The criticism you mention about "The Pink Pajama Girl" Is 
well taken. Inconsistencies often "get by" the best directors. 

L. C, Staten Island. — We cannot help you get a position. 

E. R. M., Brooklyn. — We have no Leah Winslow with the Vitagraph Co. Irving 
White played opposite Ormi Hawley in "The Deceivers." Eleanor Blanchard has never 
been with the Path6 Co. 

Bert Bunny & Co. — Baby Nelson was the child in "Together" (Lubin). Max Linder 
is with the foreign Path6 company, and William Cavanaugh is with the Western Path6 
section. It is not known whether there are more Licensed or Independent theaters, but 
the best information is that there are more Licensed. 


DICK RIDGELY and CLEO RIDGELY, who left Brooklyn, N. Y., August 26th, as 
representatives of The Motion Picture Story Magazine, on a horseback trip 
to San Francisco, Cal., are meeting with tremendous success in all cities which they 
visit. Those theaters in which they appear are crowded to the doors, and they are al- 
ways given an enthusiastic reception. 

On date of writing, October 25th, they are at Pittsburg, Pa., and during the next 
two months they will probably pass through the following cities: 


McKoes' liocks 
New HiiRhton 
Rpaver Tails 
Ellwood City 
New Castle 









Mineral City 











West .Tefferson 





West Alexandria 


New Paris 




Germantown Sta. 















Terre Haute 











Mulberry Grove 




Central City 







Those exhibitors in the above-mentioned cities who desire to make arrangements 
with Mr. and Mrs. Ridgely to appear at their theaters, can do so by writing to us 




G. F. D., Ohio. — ^Thomas Moore was Kotten, Jr., in "The Girl Strikers." Lottie Pick- 
for^^s the girl. Gregory- Doyle is not connected with this department. Alice Joyce is 
expsCT^to reniji'iu In New York. 

• JIi A. W.,^AN Fb^ncisco.— See chat with Edith Storey in November issue. 

"I). M. J-'^WAX'.'^^Harold Lockwood was the player you mean in "His Message" 

(Bison- 191 )^t? ' :. 

E. M.'C., Nevada. — Hal Reid is directing for Champion Co. 

A. G. M., Portland. — ^The two .jockeys were Harry Wulze and Lew Harkness, the 
girl was Mae Marsh ; Colonel, William West ; banker, Knute Rahm, in "Kentucky Girl." 

Mbs. Moobe, Rochester. — Pauline Bush is with the American Co., but we cannot 
give personal addresses. • -. ^ - 

Jim a. — You will have to write Kalem and ask how much th6y paid Mr. Marquard, 
the baseball player, and how much the flkn "Rube Marquard Wjns" cost them. Perhaps 
they will answet, and perhaps they wont.- Why should they? flar^ Myers had the lead 
in "What the Driver Saw." - Peter Lang was the driver. Other questions answered. 

:SusANNE WEBER.^rCharlesOlary had the lead in both "The Girl with the Lantern" 
and "Officer Murray.!' Edna Payne was Mndge in "A Girl's Bravery." Earl Metcalf 
was Harry Tennant. Frederick Santley .was Kalem's Bertie, and not Edward Coxen. 
Joseph Bebhart had the lead in "The Hand of Destiny." You can get all the magazines 
for 1911, except February, July, August and September. 

Emma L., Little Rock. — We are glad to have your opinion, but we are trying to 
please everybody. You probabl.v know that other people do not all agree with you. 

Plairsie 300.— William Clifford was Donald Maynard in ''A Stolen Gray." Fred- 
erick Church is the player fm\ mean in Western Essanay. Wallace Reid was Joe in "At 
Cripple Creek." We will consider your idea about printing the casts. 

Eva, Montreal. — We simply will not answer Biograph questions, that's all. We 
have no Bargain Days, on the magazine. It's easy enough to tell that you are a woman. 

Annie Law. Briixjepobt. — Jane Fearnley Is with the Imp Co. Mace Greenleaf has 
been dead for some time. 

E. T., CLEVKLAND.^Howard Missimer was the Wild Man in Essanay's play by that 
name, but, usually, he is quite tame. 

F. M., HoNESDALE, Pa. — "Release date" means the date that the manufacturer 
assigns for' the film to be released by the exchanges. The film is made many months 
before it is shown to the public. The film exchanges have them in advance, but they are 
not allowed to give them out until the release date. Your other questions cannot be 
answered by this department ; you should address the Technical Bureau. 

Lee Lash Co. — ^There are several unions and organizations of exhibitors and opera- 
tors in nearly every city and State. We cannot give you the addresses of them all. We 
do not think they have any "house organ." 

V. Fontana, New Obleans. — Marion Leonard had the leads with Rex last year. 

L. C, Newark, N. J. — Mabel Trunnelle was Mrs. Vale in "Thorns of Success." 

Little Vera. — Write Kalem for portrait of Carlyle Blackwell. 

M. A. G., San Francisco. — Look at Alice Jo.vce's chat in August issue. 

Genevieve. r..os Angeles. — Bliss Milford was the lead in "The Grandfather." 
Mildred Bracken had the lead in "A Romance of Catalina Island" (M61i6s). Mabel 
Trunnelle was formerly an Edison player. We shall have pictures of Earle Williams and 
Maurice Costello soon. 

Victoria L., Brooklyn. — Carlyle Blackwell and Belle Harris had the leads in "The 
Frenzy of Firewater." Frances Ne Moyer had the lead in "A Lover's Signal" (Lubin). 

Miss Julia, St. Louis. — What advice do you want about our magazine? Be more 
definite. Jack Halliday has left Lubin. 

A St. Joseph Reader. — We cannot tell the name of the plays from the description. 

C. V. R., Worcester. — We cannot print pictures of Biograph players without using 
the names. Thank you for the suggestion. 

M. D. I., Chicago. — Please give the name of the company. 

H. O., Westerly, R. I. — Mabel Normand is posing for the Keystone Co. Orml 
Hawley is still with Lubin. No Biograph ??? 

M. North, Montana. — Herbert Prior was Mr. Vale in "Thorns of Success." 

F. F.— Mary Fuller formerly played with the Vitagraph. Mrs. Costello has played 
in only two releases. 

Celeste W., Muskogee. — Edward Boulden was the clerk in "Cyntha's Agreement" 

L. A., Pittsburg. — Gladys Hulette is now on the regular stage. Kenneth Casey is 
not a girl. The little sheriff is unknown ; Lewis was Fred Church ; his father, William 
Todd ; mother, Mrs. Macklej', and the sheriff. Arthur Mackley, in "The Little Sheriff." 

Anxious B. G.— Benjamin Wilson was J. B. Randall In "The Passing of the J. B. 
Randall Co." (Edison). Shall print the pictures you ask for soon. 

Some Alameda Fans. — Vedah Bertram's picture in August, 1912. 

Iowa Gibl. — Read the back numbers. Send your subscription to the same address 
you sent the inquiry (26 Court, Street, Brooklyn, N. Y.). 


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A. L., G. E., H. F. Mc, K. E. 6., Hinky Dink, Ziver Blackfischer, Marie V., M. L. N., 
A. G., G. D. Norfolk, R. H., R. Lincoln, R. K. Denver. — Your questions have either 
been answered before, or are not in compliance with the rules of this department. 

G. R. H., Bayfield, Wis. — Joseph De Grasse and Miss Mason were husband and 
wife in "A Redman's Friendship" (Path6). Just address the "Answers Man," care of 
The Motion Picture Story Magazine, 26 Court Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

G. K., Brooklyn^ — We do not use Selig pictures. Ray Gallagher was Dick in 
"The Cowboy Kid" (M61i6s). 

Sallie K. W. — William Barley's picture has never appeared In this magazine. 
William Clifford Is with Nestor. 

Marjorie M., Montreal. — Please dont ask us how you can get in the pictures. 
There's no hope. Rosemary Theby is not with Sellg, but Vitagraph. The letters that 
are written in the pictures are usually photographed and filmed after the whole play 
has been taken, as are the subtitles. Gilbert Anderson's permanent leading lady has 
not been announced as yet. 

Elsie, Washington. — The 'girl in "The Arizona Woman" is now unknown to 
Essanay. Alice Joyce has not left Kalem. 

Gwendolyn, 111. — We cannot answer Bison questions, because no information about 
their players could be had during the recent lawsuit. Jack Richardson is always the 
villain in the American, and a good one — or, should we say a bad one? The American 
Company inform us that there Is no Richard Kerrigan with their company. "A-B" 
stands for American Blograpb. 

I. M. Inquisitive. — Master Paul Kelly was only a special in the Vitagraph. 

Bobby P. B., Baltimore. — "Mammoth Life Savers" was taken at Coney Island by 
the Vitagraph Company. John Steppling has returned to the Essanay. 

Jim a. & Bert A. — Frederick Church Is the curly-haired man in the Western 
Essanay. G. M. Anderson takes all kinds of parts. Vedah Bertram was the girl in 
"Broncho Billy's Narrow Escape." The girl in "A Wife of the Hills" is unknown. It 
was a real fire in "Fire at Sea" (Path6). But when we say a real fire, we do not 
necessarily mean that the whole ship or building burned down. Most manufacturers 
do not care to explain how trick pictures are done, or whether they are trick pictures 
or not. Newton Smiley was Raven, and Hazel Neason was the girl in "The Lair of 
the Wolf" (Kalem). 

L. V. D. Holden. — Julia Mackley and Edna Fisher were the mother and sweet- 
heart in "The Sheepman's Escape" (Essanay). ■ 

Edith. — Bertha Blanchard was the wealthy lady in Thanhouser's "That's Happi- 
ness." William Garwood was the son. F. Foster was David in the first reel, and 
Edward Genung was David in the third reel in "David Copperfield" (Thanhouser). 

A. C. Sterling. — William Garwood was John Henderson in "A Six Cylinder 
Elopement" ( Thanliouser ) . 

No. 666, St. Louis. — Burt King was the detective, Adele Lane the sister, and 
Romaine Fielding the brother in "Detective's Conscience." Frank Tobin and Kathlyn 
Williams were the leads in "The House of His Master." In "The Reporter Girl's Big 
Scoop," Natalie Carlton was the heiress, and Stuart Holmes the count. Ormi Hawley 
had the lead in "Betty and the Roses." You mean Frederick Church in "Alkali Ike 
Plays the Devil." Mrs. Wm. Todd was the girl. Francis Bushman had the lead in 
"White Roses." Florence La Badie was Undine in Thanhouser's "Undine." Mar- 
guerite Snow was Berthalda. Anna Nilsson and Hal Clements had the leads in "The 
Grit of the Girl Telegrapher" (Kalem). 

"DiGHY Reader," Dighy. — Leo Delaney was Nello in "The Answer of the Roses." 

NuNCY, New Orleans. — You will have to learn that the players change from 
one company to another for various reasons, and that is why you see Biograph players 
with Imp. Louise Glaum was Mabel Jones in "Those Love-Sick Cowboys" (Nestor). 

F. WiLLABD, Cambridge. — Harry Wulze played Shorty in "Kentucky Girl" (Kalem). 
Edna Payne the daughter In "Moonshiner's Daughter" (Lubin). 

Interested. — Joseph Gebhart was Bull Moose in "The Penalty Paid" (Path6). 

"Many Thanks." — William Duncan was the son in "The Cowboy Mother." 

T. S. De Soto. — We have not Dorothy Phillips' whereabouts. Winnlfred Green- 
wood was not in the Edison play you mention. Edythe Lyle was the wife in "The 
District Attorney's Conscience" (Reliance). Frances Ne Moyer and Roy McKee had 
the leads in "The Lover's Signal." Roswell Johnson was Buster in "When Buster 
Went to Dreamland." Mrs. B. F. Clinton was Earle Williams' mother in "One Touch 
of Nature Makes the Whole World Kin." The name Vitagraph was very appropriately 
thought of and aptly applied: Vita (Life). Orapho (To write) equals Life Writings. 
Use any kind of paper when sending in your questions. 

R. R. P., Conn. — Nothing doing with the Bison question. They are either too 
busy with the lawyers, or else they are copying Biograph. 

F. M. G., Chicago.— Lottie Briscoe had the lead in "The Spoiled Child." 

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A CKristiYiees S\jggestior^ 

CL What could be a more appropriate Christmas gift to those 
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The Motion Picture Story Magazine 

26 Court Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 


E. T., The Movie Girl. — Edwin August and Ormi Hawley had the leads -in "The 
Plaj'ers." Myrtle Stedman and Wni. Duncan had the leads in "The Cattle Rustlers." 
Henry Walthall was the son In "Mother" (Reliance). Carl Winterhoof had the lead 
in "Into the Genuine" (Selig). Tes, Mr. Bushman is with the Chicago Essanay. 

Fix)SSiE C. P., Cincinnati. — Madam, you are deceiving me. You are not the 
original Flossie. Florence Barker Is with Powers. Dorothy Phillips was Dorothy in 
"A Burglarized Burglar" (Essanay). Mable Moore was Mable in "A False Suspicion." 
Ormi Hawley was Ruth in "The Cure of John Douglas." Carlyle Blackwell had the 
lead in '"'Fantasca, the Gypsy." John Halliday was Tomasino in "My Brother Agostino." 

L. R. — James Morrison was the cowboy in American's "The Greaser and the Weak- 
ling." Other questions elsewhere. The Rex Company will not give out any information 
'about "The Ghost of a Bargain." 

Kitty W. — Earle Williams Is not at all "stuck-up." He has lots of admirers. 
Darwin Karr is with the Solax Company. Arthur Maekley was the smuggler in "The 
Smuggler's Daughter." Thanks for the "Yankee Dime." 

E. S. C, Staten Island. — Edgar Jones was Bob in "A Trustee of the Law." In 
Thanhouser's "Her Secret," Harry Benham was the husband, and Mignon Anderson 
the wife. Alice and Hall were Blanche Cornwall and Darwin Karr in "The Wooing 
of Alice." Jack Richardson played the ranger in "The Vengeance That Failed." 

Gertrude. — Alice Joyce was the daughter in "The Gun Smugglers." Beverly Bayne 
was Becky in "The Return of Becky." Clara Williams was the lead in "Circle C 
Ranch's Wedding Present" (Essanay). Leona Flugrath was Rosa in "The Street 
Beautiful" (Edison). Kate Winston was Mary in "An Apache Renegade." Leo 
Delaney should have been in the place of Charles Kent in the cast in the magazine 
under "As You Like It." Brooks was Brooks McCloskey, and Henrietta was Henrietta 
O'Beck in "When Buster Went to Dreamland." Lola was Gene De Lespin in "The 
Thorns of Success" (Majestic). Edna Hammel the child, and Bliss Milford the 
mother in "The Grandfather" (Edison). Ormi Hawley had the lead in "The Deceivers." 

Tommy Rott, Cal. — In Victor's "The Winning Punch," the boy that was presented 
with the winning punch is not in the cast. F. A. Newburg was Rowland in Vitagraph's 
"Written In the Sand." 

R. G., New York. — Warren J. Kerrigan was the cowboy in "Outlaw Colony." Re- 
public does not answer on "The Girl in the Auto." 

H. T. P. Jackson. — Charles Herman and Julia Hurley were the old man and old 
woman in Reliance's "Cuckoo Clock." Comet is also behind in answering our questions. 

M. C. Dayton. — Sorry, but nothing doing on the Rex questions. Their publicity 
man is not feeling well. 

"Beth," Columbus.-^FIo La Badie was the wife in "A Wrecked Taxi." William 
Russell was her husband. Gaumont pictures are taken abroad. Will soon be able 
to answer questions about their players. Did you say Owen Moore and Mary Plckford 
were married? Shocking. 

H. Kahn, N. Y. C. — "Love Will Tell" is not an Essanay. Other ?? barred. 

Diana D. — Judging from the pictures we see, Harry Myers and Edwin August 
dance. Neither of them directs plays. The "grand-looking blond man with the darkish 
eyebrows who plays sort of villainous parts in the Victor" is unknown. 

J. C. J. — In "Jim's Wife" (Edison), George Lessey and Miriam Nesbitt had the 
leads. Willliam Duncan was the leading man in "Brand Blotter." . Motion Picture 
films are 1% inches wide. 

F. D. Otumeva. — The little boy and girl In Pathfi's "Anguished Hours" are unknown. 
Unsigned, Chicago. — Please sign your letters. The Thanhouser question has been 

answered before. Lubin does not know the cast in "Seilorita's Butterfly." And the Rex 
question cannot be answered, for reasons hereinbefore set forth, as the lawyers say. 

W. J. K. — William Garwood was Bertie in "Under Two Flags." William Russell 
was the colonel. We dont know whether the "Virginian" ha.s been done in pictures or 
not. Your other questions cannot be answered at present. See Warren Kerrigan's 
picture in "Gallery." 

I-I. E. R. — John Adolphi's whereabouts are not known. 

L. M. A., Texas. — ^The date on the calendar in the pictures is not necessarily the 
day on which the picture is taken. Your second question is not clear. Vitagraph's 
"A Tale of Two Cities" is over a year and a half old. 

Charlotte D. — Frederick Church was the artist in "A Moonshiner's Heart." Jack 
Halliday was the doctor in "Betty and the Doctor." He is not with Lubin now. Edgar 
Jones was the deputy in "A Deputy's Peril" (Lubin). G. M. Anderson is not of 
Swedish parentage. Carlyle Blackwell had the lead in "The Frenzy of Firewater." 

M. B. A. & F. E. A., Tampa. — "Her Secret" was a Thanhouser, not Nestor. Mignon 
Anderson was the daughter. 

Maybei.l Marie. — Harry Benham was Tom in "Why Tom Signed the Pledge." 
"Inquiry Dept." is not necessary on the envelope, but advisable. If the inquiry gets 
in the wrong department it soon gets to the Answer Man's desk. 

Hears Church Bells After Long Deafness 

For tlie first time in years, this good lady, 
who has been deaf, hears the church bells. 
She is in ecstasy. Only this morning has 
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T\vent\-thrce years ago she first found her- 
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she was told of a book which explains how 

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writing to the author. Dr. Geo. E. Coutant. 
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oflfer will bring joy to many homes. 


L. D. OxNAKD. — See Rex answers above. 

E. L. B., Cleveland. — Florence La Badie and James Cruze had the leads In "Called 
Back" (Thanhouser). Nestor's Information bureau Is out ot, order. 

"Happy," Brooklyn. — Grace Scott Is with Lubin. We cant give her stage career. 

Hope and Faith, San Francisco. — Frederick Church was the loafer in "The 
Loafer's Mother." Ask editor Brewster for a G. M. Anderson chat. 

E. J. D., Chicago. — Martha Kussell was the leading lady in "Twilight" (Essanay). 

Diana D., Hot Springs. — We presume Harry Myers and EMwin August are good 
friends. Why not? Edwin has left Lubin, but Harry stays. Path6 Fr6r6s will not 
answer any questions about their leading ladies. 

An Asbury Park Curl. — Cines pictures are made abroad, and we cannot give you 
the cast you ask for. Frances Ne Moyer was the daughter and Thomas Aiken the 
captain in "The Smuggler's Daughter" (Lubin). Vedah Bertram was the daughter 
in "The Smuggler's Daughter" (Essanay). 

Dolly W. — Cleo Ridgely is not acting for any company. She is riding across the 
continent on horseback with her husband at present. See "Greenroom Jottings" for 
latest news about Mary Pickford. 

Flossie. — Dont know, Flossie, why Van Brook plays such mean parts. I'm glad 
you like his name. Some prefer Van Dyke Brown. You haven't given up Crane 
Wilbur for Ray Gallagher, have you? 

L. La Vergne L. — No, there are not two Harry Myers; one is Charles Arthur. 
Jack Standing is in California playing on the stage. 

Lola B. B. — Oh, no! we never get tired of questions. Dolores Cassinelli is not 
ill, nor is Florence Lawrence. Flossie C. P. evidently lives In Los Angeles, altho that 
question is not in our line. 

P. C, N. Y. C. — The information you ask is not obtainable. 

J. H. FiTZ, La Payette. — Thanks for your lengthy and interesting letter. 

Pauline B. C. P. — Mabel Normand and Fred Mace are with Keystone. Adele 
De Garde became a member of Vitagraph because of her talent, we suppose. Look 
elsewhere for other ???. 

Abbie R., Penn. — May Buckley had the lead in "Betty and the Doctor." Lillian 
Christy is Carlyle Blackwell's leading lady. George Lessey was the lead in "Tony's 
Oath of Vengeance" (Edison). He also had the lead in "Corsican Brothers." Lillian 
Walker is still with the Vitagraph. 

Marie, St. Louis. — Guy Coombs Is still with Kalem, and as for Mary Pickford, 
she has left Biograph; and now, you want to know about Henry Walthall? We cant 
tell you! Understand? 

Heline, N. J. — Gilbert Anderson is stationed at Niles, Cal. We accept only players' 
pictures from the companies to which they belong. 

Maky p., Allegheny. — Maurice Costello's father was Spanish-Irish, and his 
mother Irish. Write to the company for players' pictures. 

L. R. T. — What company? We dont know what you mean. 

Mabelle G. p. — Barbara Tennant was the girl In Eclair's "Robin Hood." Whitney 
Raymond is with Essanay. Helen Gardner has not released her first picture as yet 
Tiresome waiting, isn^ it? 

Orrie L. — Alice Weeks was Thelma in Reliance's "Thelma." 

Helen of Peru. — Lucille was Marguerite Snow ; Constance, Mignon Anderson ; Ma- 
tilda, Florence La Badie in "Lucille." The address of Thanhouser Is New Rochelle. N. Y. 

G. A. J., Dallas. — ^Norma Talmadge marries Leo Delaney in "The Extension Table." 

V. S., I^s Angeles. — ^We may be able to print Mary Plekford's picture some time, 
but we cant just say when. We cannot go into the detail of how the pictures are taken. 
Why not get Talbot's book? 

"WiNNYE. — You will have to go to California to get acquainted with Warren Ker- 
rigan. My name? It's Answers Man at every meal. Carlyle Blackwell has already 
been interviewed in the July, 1912, issue. No, we do not agree with you; Crane Wilbur 
is not a "perfect lady." 

Marjorie, Newark. — No, Carlyle Blackwell was not in Newark, in the Elite Theater, 
on Saturday, September 28th, at one o'clock. At that particular minute he was in 
California, but we are not sure about the particular spot 

Flossie. — Margaret Loveridge is with Keystone. Her interview will soon appear. 
You say you live on the same street with her? You were born under a lucky star. 

C. Mc, N. Y. C.^John Bunny is with the Vitagi-aph, and not with the Essanay. 
That was Joseph Allen as the Boob's father in "Adamless Eden." Florence Turner is 
acting every day. 

L. La Vergne L. — Mabel Normand was the lead in "A Water Nymph" (Keystone). 

J. W. S. — You have the Imp Cor'pany placed correctly. 

G. I. Y., Cal. — Leona Flugrath was Rosa in "The Street Beautiful." Owen Moore 
had the lead in "The Chance Shot" Mabel Trunnelle had the lead in "A Game of 
Chess." Augustus Carney is Alkali Ike. No Biograph questions, please. Why persist?" 



AiR-CusHiON Finish 





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A. F., Brooklyn. — Send stamped, addressed envelope for list. 

Smith, New Jersey. — Myrtle Stednian and William Duncan had the leading parts 
in "The Wayfarer." 

Picture Fan, Danbury. — Path6 Frt^ri-s took pictures of tlie World's Championship 
ball games. 

The Twins. — Martha Russell was Rose in "The End of the Feud." Margaret Joslln 
was the girl in "Love on Tough Luck Ranch." Mildred Weston was Billy Mason's oppo- 
site in "Cupid's Quartette." Charles Clary and Winnifred Greenwood had the leading 
parts in "Under Suspicion." Harry Myers and Charles Arthur are still with Lubin. 
Hazel Neason was the lead in "The Thief," Marion Cooper and Guy Coombs the boy 
and girl In "A Railroad Lochinvar," Adelaide Lawrence the child in "The Little 
Wanderer." J. P. McGowan was the lead in "Winning a Widow." Edgar Jones was 
the doctor in "The Physician of Silver Gulch." And — the last — Jane Gale was the 
girl in "Stubbornness of Youth." It's a good thing you are twins! 

F. S., Mass. — Jack Richardson is the American villain. 

ViRGiE, New Orleans. — Gladys Wayne was Betty in "Betty Fools Dear Old Dad." 

Blanche L., Kans. — We cannot help you place scenarios. See "Ghosts" in October 
issue for form. List of manufacturers, if you send a stamped, addressed envelope. 

H. JI., Ga. — Bison 101 pictures are taken in California. 

NuNCY. — Earle Metcalf and Edna Payne had the leads in "A Girl's Bravery." 

An Interested Reader. — Your questions have been answered before, and you 
should not ask about relationship. 

I. M. P., Chicago. — Adrienne Kroell had the lead in "Into the Genuine." 

R. W., Hot Springs. — J. P. McGowan and Gene Gauntier had the leads in "Cap- 
tured by Bedouins." Lottie Pickford was with Kalem last. We never see the players' 
envelopes, so cannot tell you who the highest salaried player is. Probably Florence 
Lawrence and Maurice Costello. Kate, in Champion's "Sisters," was Barbara Tennant. 

F. H. W., Louisville. — Thomas Santschi was Tom Byrne in "Sergeant Tom Byrne 
of the N. W. M. P." William Duncan was Billy in "An Equine Hero" (Selig). Thank 
you for your information. 

Bobby P. B. — Mary Fuller was Eliza, Carlyle Blackwell was Shelby, and Topsy 
was Florence Turner in Vitagraph's "Uncle Tom's Cabin." 

R. R. P., Boston. — The wife in "The Wife of the Foothills" is not known. Vedah 
Bertram was the Indian maid in "Broncho Billy and the Indian." Alice Joyce was the 
sheriff in "The Sufifragette Sheriff." William Clifford was the sheriff in "The Sheriff's 
Roundup" (Nestor). Gene Gauntier was the girl in "The Bravest Girl in the South." 
Clara Williams was the daughter in "The Sheriff's Daughter" (Lubin). Baby Audrey 
was the child in "The Child of the Purple Sage." 

"BiLLiE," PiQUA. — Charles Elder was the doctor in "The Will of Destiny" (Melius). 
Burt King and Adele Lane had the leads in "The Detective's Conscience." Martha 
Russell was Mr. Bushman's wife in "Her Hour of Triumph." Gertrude Robinson was 
the lead in "Grandpa." and Cliarles Herman was the son-in-law. Zena Keefe had the 
lead in "Gambler" (Vitagraph). Hal Reid was Rip Van Winkle, and Sue Balfour was 
his wife in "Rip Van Winkle" (Reliance). George Periolat and Louise Lester were 
the father and mother in "An Evil Inheritance" (American). 

J. W., Duluth. — Billy Quirk is still with Solas. He had the lead in "The Profes- 
sor's Daughter" (Pathg). He has had stage experience. 

C. C, Rochester. — Miss Glahm and Joseph De Grasse had the leads in "The $2500 
Bride" (Pathe). George Beatty was just hired for the occasion. Marion Cooper was 
Undine in "Saved from Court-Martial." Mr. Kimball is correct, not James Young, as 
Senator Carter in "A Vitagraph Romance." 

Cope, Rochester. — Bertram R. Brooker wrote the Lambert Chase stories. "The 
Mystery Play" was written in our office. Cleo Ridgely did not go thru Rochester. 

D. B., San Francisco. — Kate Winston played opposite Carlyle Blackwell in "Apache 
. Renegade." Edgar Jones was the detective in "The Sheriff's Daughter." Carlyle Black- 
well was chatted in July, 1912. 

M. J., Brooklyn. — Read the index page about accepting stories. 
J. G., Danviixe. — Charles K. French is with Pathfi Freres. 

G. M., Hartford. — The players receive from $25 a week up. 

Phillips, Cambridge. — The two characters were played by Crane Wilbur in "Texas 
Twins." It is called "double exposure" and has been explained in back numbers. 
E.. L., Brooklyn. — Carlyle Blackwell was Simple Sam in "Suffragette Sheriff." 
E.' S. A. — P. C. Hartigan was Pete in "The Mine Swindler." Nancy Avrill was the 
girl in "Country and Church" (Edison). Hazel Neason was Millie in "How Millie 
Became an Actress" (Vitagraph). The spinster sister-in-law was Jane Wolfe in "The 
Suffragette Sheriff." 

D. B. Hammond. — Victor releases one picture a week. 

E. R., Chicago.— Essanay did not produce "Alkali Pete's Wife." 
E. J. — ^Path6 FrSres did not produce "Indian Idyll." 


The next number of The MotION PICTURE StoRY MAGAZINE will come 
out about a week before Christmas and will be called the 


It will contziin severed poems, stories and drawings appropriate to the holiday season, includ- 
ing a Christmeis Tree, drawn by A. B. Shults, containing the portreuts in miniature of meuiy popular 




Among our noted contributors to this superb number will be: 



and many others 

As these writers are well known to our readers and to the general public, they will need no 
introduction. We are constantly striving to get together the best staff of fiction writers in this 
country. Among the stories promised for the near future cure one by RE!X BELA.CH, and one 


The Holiday Number will be a very large edition, but the prospects are that it will not 
long remain on the stands. Thouseinds of newsstands sold out our November number before it 
had been on sale a week, and they could not get any more magazines because the edition was 
exhausted. History will probably repeat itself on the Holiday Number, so you had better 
order now from your dealer. Or, better still, subscribe ! Read elsewhere how to do it, 
cuid of the advantages of being a subscriber. 



A. M., On a Visit. — Thank you. "Buy Me Some Ice" was an Essanay. The real 
title was "The Ice Man." 

I. M. A., Minn. — Your questions have all been answered. 

M. E. K., Chicago. — William Duncan was "Jim" in "The Brand Blotter." 

Bebt, Bunny & Co. — Joseph De Grasse was the husband in "His Wife's Sweetheart" 
Robert Burns was the husband in "Over the Hills to the Poorhouse." It would be out 
of order if "Bunny's Kids" were not fat lllie himself. In the first place, is he married? 
Flora Finch does not talce daily exercises to lieep herself thin. And Mildred Weston 
was the blonde in "Pa Trubell's Troubles," opposite William Mason. 

C. T. B. — Thomas Moore was the bool£keeper in "The Boolskeeper" (Kalem). 
Prlscilla and John Casperson were the children in "A Child's Prayer" (Lubin). 

C. H., Auburn. — In "The Polo Substitute" William Santschi was Smart, and Hobart 
Bosworth was Probyn. Sorrento, the outlaw, was Romaine Fielding, and Burton King 
was Bonita in "The Ranger's Reward." Clara Williams and Edgar Jones had the 
leads in "The Deputy's Peril." Brinsley Shaw was Broncho Billy's pal in the play 
by that name. Van Dorn was Guy Coombs ; Frost, Hal Clements ; and Charlotte, Anna 
Nilsson in "The Siege of Petersburg." 

Lottie D. F., Goldfield. — Edgar Jones was Manuel in "The Divine Solution." 
Robert Burns was Bob in "His Vacation." Helen Gardner is not back with Vitagraph. 

Betty W. B. — Earle Foxe was Karl in "The Street Singer." The smaller of the 
two girls in "A Mid-Winter Night's Dream" was Helen Martin. Dont ask PathS 
questions, if you can possibly help it. Laura Sawyer was the sister, Guy Hediund the 
brother in "His Secretary" (Edison). Bryant Washburn is still with the Essanay. 
"The beautiful Tillie with the swell hair-dress" was Ruth Roland in "Tillie Taylor's 
Beauty Parlor." 

D. H. "Than-Phan." — In "His Father's Son," Gene Darnell had the lead, and 
ill "Only a Miller's Daughter" Grace Nile had the lead. We have not heard of Marion 
Leonard's whereabouts. 

C. M.^Paul Panzer played the title rdle in "The Desperado" (Pathg). 

Bridgeport Reader. — Sorry we cannot accommodate you by printing the pictures of 
Selig players. We do not cover that company's pictures. William Duncan was Billy 
in "The Fighting Instinct." Helen Gardner's company will be Independent. There 
can be no more Licensed companies. 

Helen D., Schenectady. — Wallace Reld Is with Universal. The Champion is slow 
giving information; therefore your question remains unanswered. Sorry. 

Sophie N., Wilmington. — Mildred Weston was Ruth in "A Record Romance." 
Juanita was Clara Williams in "The Divine Solution." Mabel Trunnelle was Patience 
in "The Little Quakeress." 

E. J., New York. — Phyllis Gordon and Tom Santschi had the leads in "Lake of 
Dreams." Mr. Johnson was the villain in Path6's "Saved at the Altar." 

R. M., Muncie. — Phillip Smalley and Lois Weber had the leads in "The Greater 
Christian" (Rex). Tale Boss did not play in "Treasure Island." Crane Wilbur is still 
with Paths. Alice Joyce played Jean in "Jean of the Jail." Please write your ques- 
tions on a letter and not on postals. 

I. B. — Florence Hackett was the teacher in "Spoiled Child." "Paid in His Own 
Coin" was not an Edison. Herbert Prior had the male lead in "The Little Quakeress." 
You mean Ormi Hawley. A poor way to describe her. The play was "Physician's 
Honor." No! we do not answer Biograph questions. 

Gertrude. — Jack Richardson was the gun man in "The Gun Man." Signorita Ber- 
tini was Juliet in "Romeo and Juliet" (Path6). Laura Sawyer was Helen in "The 
Relief of Lucknow." Mrs. Maurice Costello was the telephone operator in "Diamond 
Cut Diamond" (Vitagraph). 

"Three Love-Sick Guys." — ^You have our sympathy. Ormi Hawley is well, thank you. 

Olga 16. — The confederate was Guy Coombs in "The Confederate Ironclad." His 
sweetheart was Anna Q. Nilsson. Slivers was E. H. Calvert in "The Redemption of 
Slivers" (Essanay). Mrs. Costello is never featured. She is not a regular player. 

M. M. M. — We shall print Helen Oostello's picture soon. The little girl in "Broncho 
Bill for Sheriff" is unknown. 

I. F., Buffalo. — Look above. 

DoTTiE C. B. — We cannot supply you with the Path6 information. 

S. S. G., McKeesport. — Yes, Edwin August was with Biograph. Edwin Carewe was 
John in "A Girl's Bravery" (Lubin). Thomas Moore had the lead in "The Thief." 

C. C. S., Belleville. — T. J. Carrigan was the prince in "Cinderella." In "Back to 
the Old Farm," William Bailey was George Randall, Frank Clayton was E. Calvert. 

E. A. P. — G. M. Anderson is not dead. 

E. E. M., New York City. — Bliss Milford was Julia in "The Grandfather" (Edison). 

T. A. M., San Francisco. — James W. Morrison has brown eyes. Edith Storey is 
still with the Vitagraph Company. John Halliday is in Cleveland, on the stage. 

B. J. C, Lincoln. — Your questions are not permissible. 


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WANTED — Send 
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This little book is from the 
pen of " The Photoplay Phi- 
losopher," otherwise known as 
" Dr. Sunbeam." It contains 
100 terse, pithy, common- 
sense paragraphs on 


and should be read by every- 
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Mailed to any address on re- 
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24 Court Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 


A. O. V. B. — ^The late Vedah Bertram lived in Niles, Cal., wliile playing with tlie 
Essanay. Slie died of appendicitis. George Reelnn liad the lead in "All in the Wash." 
Marc McDerinott was the grandfather in "Sunset Gun." 

Champion, Westerly. — Helen Gardner was the wife in "The Miracle." Leah Baird 
owned the "living child." Winnifred Greenwood was the dancer in "The Last Dance." 
Allan Mathes was the minister. 

F. F. A., Newton. — We dont answer questions about the stage; all we can do to 
keep track of Moving Pictures — they move so fast. 

A. K. — We believe Florence Turner tries to answer the letters she receives. There 
are two Costello children. 

D. C, Miss. — No, Flossie C. P. does not own any interest in this magazine. We 
have not heard much of her this month. Too bad. She will be missed. 

R. R. P., Stamford. — Arthur Mackley was the ranchman in "The Shotgun Ranch- 
man" (Essanay) ; Jack Richardson the greaser in "The Greaser and the Weakling"; 
Edna Fisher the girl in "The Tenderfoot Foreman." 

A. Z. M. M. — Some of the recent Lubin plays in which Edwin August has appeared 
are: "The End of the Quest," "The Good-for-Nothlng," and "The Players." 

M. G., Salem. — Bobby, in "Bobby's Father," is Dolores Costello. She is the 
daughter, and not the son of Maurice Costello. 

C. J., St. Louis. — Edison Company have taken several pictures abroad. G. M. 
Anderson is still acting. 

Vedah II. — The first Motion Picture Story Magazine was published February, 
1911. Pauline Bush is still with the American, and Harry Myers is still with Lubin. 

N. C. — Warren Kerrigan, we believe, has brown eyes. 

M. L., New York. — Yes, Hazel Neason had the lead in "A Political Kidnapping." 

School Girl, Buffalo. — Lillian Walker is not dead; she is playing every day. 

F. W. H. S. — George Cooper was the tramp in "Captain Barnacle's Waif." Roger 
Lytton was Le Roy Farley, and E. K. Lincoln was Harry Weston In "Irony of Fate." 

M. D., Akron. — In "The District Attorney's Conscience," Henry Walthall was Mr. 
Burr. We have not published Lottie Pickford's photo yet, but soon. 

M. W. G., Texas. — We have never printed any of the stories you mention. 

P. M. It., Westerly. — Mrs. Maurice Costello was not the stenographer, but the 
telephone operator in "Diamond Cut Diamond." Jerold Hevener was the "funny 
character" in "A Windy Day" (Lubin). 

1913. Westerley. — Dear me, no; we did not mean that Alice Joyce and Rube 
Marquard are married, but that they acted in the same play. Marion Cooper played 
opposite Guy Coombs in "The Bugler of Battery B." Note — bugler, not burglar. 

H. A. W., 1533. — We do not give the private addresses of players. Mona Dark- 
feather Is with Universal. 

C. L. M., Salem. — You evidently want a list of manufacturers. 

{Continued from page 80.) comforted, grasping his arm a little 

later in the day, at the field-hospital, tighter, "and sleepy, lovely Arden, 

whither they had taken Harvey, that and most of the dear old folks." 

the boy would soon be all right again "Dear old Steve," he said, remem- 

after a trifling surgical operation. He bering. ' ' I never knew what became 

was taken to the hospital at Memphis, of him. " 

and soon after rejoined his regiment. She shuddered. 

There had arisen a stern need for "Are you cold, dear?" he asked, 

every true son of the South, whether "I was thinking of that day in the 

he be but a boy scarcely in his teens cabin," she faltered, "of how close to 

or a recruit from the hospital. death " 

« "Never recall it again," he said, 

The sun was setting on an autumn almost sternly, then placed his hands 

afternoon in the year of '65. The tenderly on her shoulders. "After 

Trysting Garden was upgrown with all, dear, do you remember where we 

weeds and brambles. Its desolation are? In the Trysting Garden, where 

was disturbed by the advent of a we left off years ago. " 

sun-browned soldier and a slip of a "Yes, yes!" she cried, with sud- 

girl fondly leaning on his arm. denly radiant eyes; "we are still 

"It is all over now," he said; young, and will build our happiness 

"nothing is left." upon the sweetness and the sorrow of 

"But the land is still here," she the past." 





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P. C, Texas. — The New York Motion Picture Company will hereafter rele^e 
Kay-Bee films, while the Universal will release Bison 101. Francis Ford is ixyCdW- 
fornia with the New Yorli Motion Picture Company. y 

O. B., Texas. — Both the Kay-Bee and the Bison have real Indian actors. 

B. J. Williams. — Write to Earle Williams at the Vitagraph for his autograph, en- 
closing stamped, addressed envelope. He may give it to you. He is awfully nice that way. 

L. H. P., New Yobk City. — Did you send a stamped, addressed envelope? If so, 
send a special delivery asking the company to notify you about your manuscript. 

Little Rose, New Yobk. — William West was Outlaw Bill in the play by that name. 

Harold, Brooklyn. — The season for plays containing winter scenes is now open. 
Your other questioi^ are for the Technical Bureau. 

E. K., Bridgeport. — No license is necessary in order to send different plays to 
different companies. 

Vedah II. — William Humphrey was Napoleon in "A Bogus Napoleon." Your other 
questions have all been answered before. 

M. P., Ga. — Miriam Nesbitt was "Jim's Wife." Kate Winston was Mary Simmons 
in "The Apache Renegade." Mrs. Mary Maurice is not Maurice Costello's mother. 

J. A. G. T. — James Morrison was Aubrey, the artist, in "The Adventure of an 
Italian Model" (Vitagraph). We dont think Flossie would care to have us give you 
her address. 

B. R., Elmira. — ^Alice Joyce was Papita in "The Street Singer." 

L. E. W., Texas. — Jack Richardson was the villain in "Vengeance That Failed." 
Marshall Nielan was the cripple, and Pauline Bush his sister in "The Will of James 
Waldron." The American Company informs us that Warren Kerrigan's brother is 
not playing, reports to the contrary, notwithstanding. 

Anna M. — Kathlyn Williams and Charles Clary had the leads in "The Devil, 
Servant and the Man." , 

E. D. Ashland. — Irving .White played opposite Ormi Hawley in "The Deceivers." 
A theater can have both branches of the Independent companies. In "An Aeroplane 
Romance," the minister really went up in the aeroplane. 

G. A. C, Montreal. — We believe both the Kalem and Biograph companies are 
in the market for scripts. 

Diana D. — Lubin's "Romance of the Coast" was taken in Cape Cottage, Maine. 
Yes, Edwin August, Ethel Clayton and Harry Myers can swim! 

Olga 16. — "Flirt or Heroine" was taken in Brooklyn. Dont you know, Olga, It's 
against the rules to even say Biograph? 

Marie K., Cincinnati. — A picture of James Cruze was published in the May, 1912. 
issue. Warren Kerrigan in December. .Mignon Anderson and William Russell had the 
leads in "Orator" (Thanhouser). 

W. P. Girl. — In Vitagraph's "Thou Shalt Not Covet," the price of the bracelet was 
$250, and Bunny paid $150 for it. Howard Mitchell was the thief in "A Missing Finger." 

W. D., Leavenworth. — Eleanor Blanchard was the widow in "A Lucky Jlixup" 
(Essanay). Roy Clark was the little boy in "A Waif of the Sea." Edna Hammel was 
the girl in "The Little Bride of Heaven" (Edison) ; Louise Sydmeth was the Polish lady 
in the same play. • 

A. B. C. — "Neptune's Daughter" was taken at Lake Superior. In "The Hermit" 
(Essanay), William Mason was the hermit. 

J. A. T., Halifax. — Florence Lawrence did not play opposite Arthur Johnson in 
"Resurrection." The cost of the extra postage makes the magazine more expensive to 
foreign subscribers. 

Evelyn, N. H. — Ruth Roland was Tina in "Fat Bill's Wooing." They were real 
negroes in "Roost, the Kidder" (Kalem). 

Bobby P. B. — Gwendolen Pates is still with Path6 FrSrfis. 

1625, J. A. B. — Charles Arthur was the minister in "The Derelict's Return" (Lubin). 
"The Motherless Child" was not an Edison. 

Lillian G. — Mae Buckley was the young woman in "Mother Love." 

J. M. S., Stapleton. — ^There is no Arthur in the cast "For the Love of a Girl," 
unless you mean Charles Arthur. Virginia Chester was Dorothy in "The Sheriff's 
Daughter" (Kalem). Gus Mansfield was Helen's brother in "The Minister and the 
Outlaw." Al Swenson was Tom In "Betty and the Roses." 

Dorothy, Newark. — Gertrude McCoy has never been with the Vitagraph. 

S. P., Texas. — ^Martha Russell had the lead in "Neptune's Daughter." Louise 
Glaum and Donald MacDonald had the leads in "When Is a Lemon?" (Nestor). 

Elizabeth H., No. 15. — Alice Joyce is about twenty-three, if you call that young. 
Judge for yourself which company has the best players. 

N. B. — Nine pages of answers, verses, etc, have been crowded out. They will 
appear in the Holiday Number. We shall add more pages for these departments in future. 
Meanwhile, we will supply information by mail, as usual. 


PUHTflPI AY^ Criticism, reTisinn and typing for intelligent 
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(Imagined and tketchcd by Becnard Callaghei) 

All the News of the Kalem Companies 

is contained in the KALENDAR, issued twice each month 

Full reviews of coming productions, handsomely illustrated. Interesting news 
items from the Kalem companies in different parts of the world. Latest portraits 
of the leading players. Special articles on timely topics. Complete casts of 
characters for each production. 

One Year's Subscription, $1 .00 in advance. Address 

KALEM COMPANY, 235 W. 23d St., New York City 



{Continued from page 133 

For my favorite player, did you ask? 
I tbink that is no easy task. 
But I'll describe, and we will see 
If you can guess wbp it may be. 

With a new Venus, Alice Joyce, 
Plays the Adonis of my choice. 
His height and brilliant smile, I ween,^ 
Will give a clue to whom I mean. , 

Now id Kalem pictures seen, 
In the Vitagraph he has been, 
As^ere you will often meet him, 
^ut never as a villain greet him. 

His hair is of the darkest hue ; 
His eyes do match it, very true. 
But, oh ! you ought to see him smile. 
And you'd know it Is Carlyle. 

Yes, Carlyle Blackwell is his name. 
You do not know him? What a shame! 
But if you want to see hira. go 
To any first-class Picture Show. 

Brooklyn. Dokotht Rooen. 

I've seen many kinds of girls, 
Eyes of blue and golden curls ; 
Laughing blonde and gay brunette. 
Girls of almost every set ; 
Hair of darkness, eyes of brown. 
Girls who smile and girls who frown. 
But there's one who cant be beat ; 
Just to see her is a treat. 
She has a captivating way — 
My favorite in the I'icture Play. 

Fishklll-on-Hudson, N. Y. 

When she pouts she's quite entrancing. 

When she smiles, my heart goes dancing. 

Every Wednesday night I go 

To see her — in a Photoshow. 

Tho of my life she forms no part, 

I love this girl with all my heart 

If I'd short hair, instead of curls. 

And were a boy, and not a girl. 

When the time came for a mate for life, 

I'd like Miss Robinson for my wife. 

Alice R. Develyn. 

The following readers call for the portraits of, praise the acting and 
charms of, and contribute letters and verses to the players mentioned. We 
regret tliat lack of space necessitates doing them more justice ; but cheer up, 
friends — ^we are promised a voting contest soon : Andrew Martin, San Fran- 
cisco, Cal., to Flora Finch and John Bunny (Vita) ; Paul V. Chute, Hastings, 
Neb., to Edith Storey (Vita) ; Lena Hiken, St. Louis, Mo., to Owen Moore 
(Victor) ; Sylvia M. Born, N. Y. City, to "Jean" (Vita) ; "B. V. G.," Fred- 
erick, Md., to Francis X. Bushman (Ess.) ; Elsie Clark, Hot Springs, Ark., 
and Sydney Russell, Boston, Mass., to Florence Lawrence (Victor) ; "Arizona 
Kid" to G. M. Anderson (Ess.) ; "S. A. J.," Jersey City, N. J., to Carlyle 
Blackwell (Kalem) and Florence Turner (Vita). 

Among many other expressions of sympathy, we have received letters and 
verses to Miss Bertram's memory from "D. "W.," "One who feels her loss 
greatly," Ida M. Strong and Auistin A. Lincoln. We will forward them, with 
others, to her parents. 

"A Harrisburger" writes of her interest in the magazine, particularly the 
Greenroom Jottings. She is an ardent admirer of Gilbert M. Anderson, and, 
like many others, was greatly shocked when she read of his narrow escape from 
death during the making of a Broncho Billy film. By the way, we have had a 
lot of letters about this narrow escape of Mr. Anderson's. Wonder how it 
feels to know that so many girls are horrified over one's mishaps? 

We have had interesting letters, drawings or verse from the following 
readers, and wish we had room to print every one of them : F. J. H., Motion 
Picture Fan, H. M. H., Frederick Mitchell, Ruby Dancy, E. C. H., Lillian L. 
Reiss, S. N., Mert Murray, J. L. Moore, Bessie Starr, Estella Edward, The 
Jonah Club, R. C. M., Pauline Ettinger, L. R., A. J. Horner, Willie Doolittle, 
R, G. E. K., The Sandcrab, Mrs. J. H. Peck, D. B. 

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Here is part of a letter that came to 
the Technical Bureau of The Moxioh 
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"As your reply to my question of 
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We gladly print this tribute to Ormi Hawley, cons; 
the most beautiful woman now appearing in photoplay 
recent plays is helpful to playgoers : 


HE first time that I saw her on the anijiiated screen, 

It gave me such impressions that ever since I've been 
A slave devoted to the plays wliicii are the picture rage, 
With Lubin's Ormi Hawley in the center of the stage. 

When she reformed "Kid Ho'gan" and made him change his ways, 
The lovely story haunted me for many nights and days. 
And then I feasted on the tale "The Choir of Deiisniore" told. 
And brought to mind "The Shepherd's Flute," a story never old. 

And then I saw her playing in a tale called "Fire and Straw" — 
The most pathetic incident I think I ever saw. 

And then 'twas "Honor and the Sword," in which she fought for life. 
And won the'honored title of a worthy lover's wife. 

"The Social Secretary" next brought Ormi into fame, 

And "His Mistake" and "Love and Tears" shed luster on her name. 

And then "A Cure for .Jealousy," altho a funny play. 

Was charming, and I'd like to see one like it every day. 

And still a score of others, all too numerous to tell, 
Give me the recreation I have learned to love so well. 
Oh, charming Ormi Hawley, of all the girls I've seen, 
Tou are the loveliest of all, "My Gorgeous liUbin Queen !" 
Portland, Me. 


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To the Sargol Company, 438-Y, Herald Bldg., 
Bingham.ton, N. Y, 
Gentlemen — I am a reader of The Motion Picture 
Story Magazine, and desire a Free 50-cent package 
of Sargol, in accordance with your generous offer. 
I enclose 10 cents to help defray expenses. 



Mrs. H. M. Penny, of Jersey Shore, Pa., writes us a cozy letter and, 
among other things, states that she is going to "put on her old gray bonnet" 
and drive twenty miles to see Cleo Ridgely in the flesh as she passes thru 
Camden on her horseback trip across the Continent. 

A toast to a talented Vitagraph player : 


I'd count my life lived incomplete. 

And rail at Fate the while, 
Had I been destined not to meet 

My Rose, and her sweet smile. 
Los Angeles. M. R. W. 

Rose's playmate, Clara, has all kinds of eyes but unpopularize : 

Eyes, eyes, eyes, 
Eyes that talk to you, 
Eyes that mock you, 
Eyes that laugh at you. 

Eyes that 
Your tongue — 
Are the eyes of 
Clai'a Kimball Young. 
Cleveland, Ohio. 

E. T. 

Seven pages of other verses and comments have been crowded out, but will appear in the Holiday Number 





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Chicago, 111., Oct. 17th. '12. 

New York G^, N. Y. 

Dear Sir: 

Colonel Roosevelt wishes me to express 
to you his heaurty thctnks for your kind tele- 
gram of sympathy. He is doing well. Love 
to "Movie." Yg^ t^y y^„j^ 



The following statement was filed with the Brooklyn Postmaster on Oct. 3, and is here published as 
required by law: 

the Act of August 24, 191 2. 



Managing Editor, " " . 

Business Managers, " " 

Publisher,THE M. P. PUBLISHING CO " 

Owners: (If a corporation, give names and addresses of stockholders holding i per cent, or more of 
total amount of stock.) 




Known Iwndholders, mortgagees, and other security holders, holding i per cent, or more of total amount 
of bonds, mortgages, or other securities: 

P" EUGENE V. BREWSTER, Business Manager, 
Sec. & Treas. 
Sworn to and subscribed before me this 2d day of October, 1Q12. 

SAMUEL F. EDMEAD, Notary Public, Kings Co. 
[Seal] M y commission expires March, 1913. 


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The Photo Play Dramatist 

Caxton B'ld'g, 
Cleveland, Ohio 

JAJiES Young, of the \'iti>j;rjipli Company, wrote the photoplay of "The Little Minis- 
ter." We learnt this fact too late to give him credit ou the story. He also 
played the leading part in that clever piece. 

Lily Bransconil)e, alas, lias left the Kssanay Compan.v. This will he a disappoint- 
ment to her many friends. She has not yet nmde arrangements for the future. 

The Thanliouser Company worked two hvnidred people, including twenty principals, 
for four weelvs. in jiroducing "The Star of Bethlehem," at a cost of $8,000. They made 
seven reels, from whlcli only three were selected for the final film. 

More bad news. Mar.v I'ickford has left the Biograph Compan.v. She gave a 
farewell liall at her hotel at Eighty-sixth Street and Broadway, New York City, on 
October 2.")tli. at which were present a great many photoplay celebrities, who were 
only too willing to do her honor. 

Still more iiad news. Kdwin August has left the Lubin Company. 

The Essana.v Company are now selling pictures of their players. We are glnd 
that they have joined the i)rocession at last. 

Charles Kent (Vitagraph) has just recovered from a severe attack of pneumonia. 
W. V. Ranous, another director of the same company, has entirely recovered from the 
.same illness. We hope tliat laieuuionia will be less popular at the Vitagraph studio. 

.Tack CliU'k and (Jene (Jauntier are bade in America and are at the New Y'ork 
studio. They recently went to Virginia with Sidney Olcott's company to make a 
Virginia reel. Tlicy are now doing international pictures, which are pictures made 
partly here and partly abroad. 

Iteport has it that Florence Lawrence will return to Arthur Johnson, of the Lubin Co. 

The I'athe Frercs Company has been making some very ijieturesque nautical 
pictures along the coast. 

Mary Fuller, Marc McDermott and Miriam Nesliitt came back from London on 
October 22d, and are now working at the I<>dison studio in tlie Bronx, N. Y, City. 

Francis X. Bushman (Essanay) came near being a criminal recentl,v. He was 
playing the part of a Three-Card Monte Man at the fair grounds and was arrested 
by the constable. He told the constable that he was only playing. The constable 
said, "Yes, I saw you." At last the constable learnt that he was only play-playing. 

Howard Jlitchell is the standing joke of the Lubin Company. He is about to get 
married again (in a picture). 

Watcli out for "Dr. Bridget," in which John Bunny and Flora Finch are said to 
be more funn.v than ever. 

Benjamin Wilson and Jessie McAllister (Edison) are one and the same; that is 
to say, they are married, and in marriage one and one make one. 

More bad news. Edna Fisher, of tlie Vitagraph Western Company, is married. 
Since she married Mr. Sturgeon, the director, it is probably good news to her, 

Joe Smiley (Lubin) asks us the following unanswerable question: "As I am 
Smiley, wliy is I'eter Grimm?" 

The Kalem Company, pursuant to their usual policy, have taken Jack JIcGowan from 
the players' list and made him a director. He now has a ICalem ('ompaiiy of his own. 

(Juy Coonilis and Anna Q. Nllsson are still with the Kalem Company in Florida. 
By the way. an interview with Guy Coombs in the January issue. 

Edna Flugrath (Edison) has just done a fine bit of work in "Donovan's Division," 
which is a thrilliug railroad play. 




From George P. Dillenback's novel of same name. Published by The Broadway PublUhmg Co., New York City 

A Modem Drama that palpitates with fire and power. The 
most vigorous acting by the greatest artists who have ever 
infused a reproduction of life on the stage or on the screen. 


THE MODEL OF ST. JOHN. The boy and the 

THE ANARCHIST'S WIFE. A deep-laid plol. 
THE SCOOP. A newspaper woman's experience. 


SIX O'CLOCK. Momentous. 


Up in a 



THE EAVESDROPPER. ) Two refined 

THREE GIRLS AND A MAN. i comedies. 


SUSIE TO SUSANNE. What's in a name? 
ABSENT-MINDED VALET. Fat and forgetful. 

Among the cannibals. 
TOO MANY CASEYS. Real Irish comedy. 
IN THE FLAT ABOVE. A neighborly jar. 


WILD PAT. An Irish hero. 


A peacemaker. 


OMENS OF THE MESA. Drama that grips. 
UNA OF THE SIERRAS. Bright and natural. 



The large presence of Opie Read will be seen and felt to advantage in "The 
Starbucks" (American). Since Mr. Read measures six feet three from crown to toe, 
and almost as much the other way, he will make a fine Jasper Starbuck. 

Fred Mace and Mark Sennet are doing the famous detective series, for the Keystone 
Company, formerly made famous by the Biograph Company. These two celebrated 
sleuths have already unraveled several intricate detective problems, d la Sherlock 
•Holmes, and, as usual, they always unravel them in the wrong way, Mabel Normand 
and Marguerite Loveridge usually being the victims. 

Harold Shaw is not playing any more for the Edison Company, but he is still 
directing for them. 

Siegmund Liubin has invented a device for showing Moving Pictures at home. His idea 
Is that every family should keep a record in film form of its children at different ages. 

They do say that Ruth Stonehouse (Essanay) did some of her best dramatic work 
in "Chains." 

Carlyle Blackwell's Kalem Company is now doing some historical Indian pictures, 
in most of which Mr. Blackwell is the trapper. 

Edna Hammel, the star child-actress of the Edison Company, who is only about 
eight years old, has made quite a hit in "A Christmas Accident," to be released in 
December. Augustus Phillips also shows to good advantage in this interesting and 
timely play. 

Lillian Walker (Vitagraph) has evidently been saving her money. She is spending it 
now, however, on a new home that she has just purchased for herself in Flatlmsh, B'kiyn. 

The Kalem Company have decided to release "From the Manger to the Cross" 'round 
about the holidays. They recently gave a private exhibition of this reniarkable play 
to two thousand or more preachers and others in London, similar to the superb one 
that they recently gave at Wanamaker's, New York City. 

Albert W. Hale, formerly of the Thanhouser Company, has joined the Majestic 
forces. Among Mr. Hale's achievements was "The Birth of the Lotus Blossom." 

The Kalem Company have added a new star to their already starry firmament. It is 
Thomas Moore. He now shines as luminously as his brother, Owen Moore, of the Victor 
Company, which is saying a great deal. 

Evelyn Selbie, formerly of the M61i6s Company, is now playing with the Essanay 
Western Co. Her experience and expertness on horseback will now come in vei-y handy. 

On October 21st, Hiram Abrams gave a private Motion Picture entertainment for 
President Taft, at the Dreamland Theater, Beverly, Mass. 

Ruth Roland and John Brennan (Kalem), while accomplished dramatic players, 
are rapidly gaining a reputation as comedians. That's always the way : when we want 
to be funny, we cant, and when we want to be serious, they wont let us. 

The Essanay Company is building a new studio and factory at Niles, Cal., where 
6. M. Anderson and company are located. 

Gertrude McCoy was the leading lady of the Edison Company during the absence 
of Mary Fuller, Laura Sawyer and Miriam Nesbltt. 

Florence Turner (Vitagraph) is still working on "L'Aiglon." She says it is to be 
her masterpiece. All right ; but kindly hurry up — we want to see it 

The Independents were doubtless very happy at the capture of Pearl White from 
the Licensed forces. The Crystal Company is profiting by her popularity. 

Next month, a picture of Jack Richardson and Fred Mace In our Gallery of 
Players. This is the result of several thousand (more or less) letters to our Answers Man. 

Entertaining Edith Storey (Vitagraph) and Young Yale Boss (EdLson) will soon 
be seen in two newspaper stories, the first in "The Scoop," and the second in a comedy, 
"The Totville Eye." 

H. A. Spanuth, of the General Film Publicity and Sales Company, is delighted over 
the acquisition of the celebrated Charlotte De Felice, a French and Italian beauty of 
note, as leading lady. She was the model for Edward Boyer's famous picture "The 
Beggar Girl." Miss Charlotte's pretty picture will appear in our January Gallery. 

The latest from the Edison studio is that William Wordsworth has chased Edward 
O'Connor in a barrel. Wait, and you will see the result 


Twelve Beautiful Portraits 
of Motion Picture Players 

Instead of buying The Motion Picture Story Magazine from month to month, why 
not become a regular subscriber and have it mailed each month direct to you ? 


By buying in large quantities we cire able to make you this remarkable offer — 12 
beautiful colored art portraits of motion picture players FREE with one 
year's subscription to The Motion Picture Story Magazine. 

These portraits are reproduced on fine heavy coated paper of size suitable for framing, 
and will make handsome decorations for your homes. They are not for salw and cannot 
be obtained in any other way than by subscribing for The Motion Picture Story 

The portraits alone are valued at 50c. each. The 12 portraits and one year's subscrip' 
tion are now offered to you for only $1.50. 






Subscribe Now. Begin your subscription with the December number, and we will at 
once send by mail the portreuts that have already appeared : — Mary Fuller, Maurice Costello, 
Alice Joyce, Arthur Johnson, G. M. Anderson, and Florence Lawrence. 

The others you will get one each month with your magazine. Just fill out attached 
blank and mail with remittance (Stamps, Check or P. O. Order). Dont delay until you 
forget it. Do it today. 




26 Court Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

Sirs: — Enclosed find $1.50 ($2.00 Canada, $2.50 Foreign), for which send me The Motion Picture 

Story Magazine for one year, beginning with the number, together with the 

twelve colored art portraits as announced. 


Street . . .City State 


When Colonel Roosevelt was shot. H. A. Spanuth telegraphed his sympathy, for 
which the colonel telegraphed his thanks, and added : "Love to Movie." Very thoughtful, 
considering that he had a bullet in his breast. 

Romaine Fielding (Lubin) has become a real Deputy Sheriff out at Prescott, Ariz. 
Being a Corsican by birth, and an American by choice, and a fine actor by talent, we 
can now expect some real live stuff from the Western Lubin Company. 

The Universal Company now controls Nestor, 101 Bison, Imp, Crystal, Champion, 
Powers, Gem, Victor, Rex, Eclair and Milano plays. 

Mildred Bracken and the M61i6s Company are still making pictures in the South 
Sea Islands. 

Ormi riawley, noted for her beauty and charms, is known in Philadelphia as the 
Lubin Queen. 

Among the favorite topics in the greenrooms these days is the writing and market- 
ing of photoplays by the players. Nearly every player thinks he or she can write a 
photoplay, and they cannot understand why each and every one of these plays is not 

Rosemary Theby (Vitagraph) has made a decided hit in an Arabian picture of 
South Sea adventure, entitled "The Curio Hunters." 

In the person of Chester Barnett, the stage has lost a star, and the Crystal Company 
has gained one. 

Hazel Neason (Kalem) likes to write plays and then act in them. While she is 
a most pleasant, modest and unassuming girl, out of the studio, she makes a typical 
and excellent rowdy and "poor shop girl" on the screen. 

Alice Hollister, who took the place of Gene Gauntier in "The Kerry Gow" during 
Miss Gauntier's absence in America, surprised herself with her good work. She shared 
the honors with Jack Clark, the hero. 

The favorite topic in the greenrooms, and all over the studios these days, is about 
the "Great Mystery Play." Everybody has a different solution, and nobody knows who 
is right 

The Lubin tourists, including Mae Hotely, George Reehm, Walter Stull, the Misses 
Ne Meyer and about, twenty others are again at Jacksonville, Fla., for the winter. 

If somebody will state who is the prettiest of the following five pretty women, it 
will save our Answers Man a great deal of trouble : Evebelle Prout, Dolores Cassinelli, 
Beverly Bayne, Ruth Stonehouse, and Mildred Weston. 

Mr. E. G. Routzahn informs us that he has brought about the introduction of 
Motion Pictures in the Department of Surveys and Exhibits of the Russell Sage 
Foundation for "Making cities to be better places in which to live." 

The physicians and hospitals in Philadelphia have found that It pays to stand in 
with the Lubin Company. That company has again made some scientific medical films 
for the benefit of Science. 

When you see Mildred Weston (Essanay) in "The Discovery," you will know that 
this popular young player has nerve as well as talent. This play required that Miss 
Weston be knocked unconscious by a swiftly passing automobile. 

It is said that Warren Kerrigan (American) likes to receive letters from his 
admirers, and that he answers them. We wish he would answer a few hundred of 
those we receive about him. 

The famous Alkali Ike, otherwise known as Augustus Carney, has left the Western 
and joined the Eastern Essanay Company. Since there is never any loss without some 
gain, we dont care much. As long as Ike is, we do not care where he is. To be frank, 
however, we wish he would join the Vitagraph Company, or that John Bunny and 
Flora Finch would join the Essanay Company. It would be a three-base hit. 

Maurice Costello and his two charming child-players will soon be seen in an 
excellent Vitagraph Christmas play. 

Leo Delaney (Vitagraph) has dispossessed himself from his Huntington home and 
has organized a new one in Brooklyn for himself and bride. 

David Kirkland is the latest edition to G. M. Anderson's Western Essanay Company. 

The Solax Company announces a new play entitled "Flesh and Blood — ^a film with 
a punch." We thought prize-fighting films were prohibited. 

Special Features 


OCTOBER 28, 1912 



Claude Rodgers, a reckless gambler, falls heir to a banking business through the will of his 
father-in-law. The bank, when he receives it, is staple and secure, but Rodgers immediately 
launches a " Get-rich-quick" scheme and starts a campaign to get depositors by promises of 
fabulous interest. The bzmk soon becomes the largest, cJthough not the safest, in the Eeist. 
But good things cannot last forever, and with his wife's sickness Rodgers' luck turns. A run 
on the bank is the next misfortune, and because of Rodgers' extravagance it cannot stand the 
strain. Amidst a scene of wild disorder at the Stock Exchange, the bank's stock collapses. 
A mob of ruined depositors storms the home of the banker, pursuing him through the rooms, 
until they find that a bullet from his revolver has brought his reckless career to a close. 

NOVEMBER 4. 1912 



Signore Lorenzo, a wealthy and eunbitious plebeian, seeks to dethrone Prince Giein of Milan. 
Lorenzo becomes eneunored with Maria, a beautiful peasant girl, who repulses his attentions 
and is protected by Miguel, whom she soon msuries. Through Lorenzo's influence they are 
driven from home into direct poverty, and Meiria's death soon follows. Miguel later 
acquires wealth, but agciin falls victim to Lorenzo's treachery, who bribes his servant, Tano, 
to incinerate Miguel's property. Lorenzo's attempts to steal Miguel's beautiful daughter 
and usurp the throne are foiled, and he is betrayed by Tano into a vacant house ; the 
place is fired, and his life ground out by the Mills of the Gods, that are inexorable in 
their ultimate gristing of souls. 

NOVEMBER 11, 1912 








Thomas A. Edison announces 
his New Cylinder Phonograph Record 


Blue Amberol 

The Blue Amberol is a mu- 
sical and mechanical triumph. 
Its volume is greater, and its 
tone is decidedly finer than 
any other phonograph 
record you can buy. And 
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Careless handling will 

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Ask your Edison dealer 
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write us for particulars. 

THOMAS A. EDISON, Inc., 144 Lakeside Avenue, ORANGE, N. J. 

25 Clerkenwell Road, London, E. C. 


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I c P. for inspeption. Catalog FREE, shows 

IniAIUIONn^^ foil line. Patent rinr gaupe included. 10 cents. 
KHHSiKiUHi BarodBVo.^epUtiS, LelaDd&UoTer8l.,Chleas« 

Do You Like Fun? 

We Iiave one of the greatest fun producing novelties in exist- 
ence. Gel the Joke on Your Friends. They will laugh with 
you at its curious workings and astonishing noises. It can be 
operated by anyone and repeated hundreds of times. Every 
boy and girl, and their parents, too, wi 1 delight in it. 

To introduce our other goods, we will sell this novelty at 
only 5 Cent*, coin or U. S. postage stamps. Better get one 
now. Mail orders to 

^-="E=Z "Self =FilIer Pen 

The most satisfactory, moderate 
priced Self-Filler on tlie marlcet 

■" Merely place ball of clip in hole and press 
once. Pen fills instantly. 5,000 words with one filling. 

Chased Barrel and Cap. 14 Kt. Gold 
Pen and Patent Clip. Price ' ■ 

s""'^'^ $1.50 

Agents Wanted. 
J. M. ULLRICH & CO., 27 Thames St, New York 


Don't be prematurely pray. Ptop vour 
hair falllnK. Use our HYOIENIO 
VACTTUM CAP at home a few 
minutes each day. It forces circula- 
tion of blood through the hair roots. 
It means perfect health for the hair. 
Kndur.scd by the leading physicians. 
:iO days' free trial. Booklet 

905 Sibley BldB.iRochester.K.'X'. 


, 'fromFRAMCE 


TbCHO (reins are clicmical white Bapphires 
— I.OOK like Diamonds. Stand acid and 
Are diamond te.^ts. So hard tliey easily 
scratch a lllo and will cut glass. Brill. 

iancy guaranteed 26 ycarH. All mounted in 14K 

Hiond gold diamond mountings. Wllli<end you any style 
ring, pin orstud for examination— allcharKcsprepaid— no money 
In advance. Write today for free lllustrs^'ed booklet, special prices 
& ring measure. WHITE TilUEY GEH CO.A 780Slb Bldg.,lBdi>iMf oils. lU. 





1913 Desi^ Gold 
Filled warranicd ' 
I With Any Three Initials and dat'i 
' Engraved FREE. One to a per- 
son Send 12 cents to help pay advt, 
and niailintr expense and receive 
cn^avcd Bracelet and Catalog 
n( New Jewelry by return mail. 
BEST SILVER CO., Dept. S6. 83 Chambers St., N.Y. City 

Presidents and Politicians 
Pontiffs and Princes 

Have Appeared in the Famous 


If you want intimate living portraits of the world's most eminent 
men — if you are interested in the personalities of the world's rulers 

See Them at the Theatres Featuring 
the Unsurpassed 

Pathe's Weekly 

The Czar of Russia The U. S. President 

The German Kaiser The French President 

The King of Spain The Cuban President 

The King of England The Portuguese President 

The King of Greece The Sultan of Morocco 

The King of Roumania The Khedive of Egypt 

The King of Italy The King of Montenegro 

The Sultan of Turkey The King' of Belgium 

The Bey of Tunis The King of Bulgaria 

The King of Saxe The King of Sweden 

The King of Servia The Queen of Holland 

and the members of their families have all appeared on the screen 
in the world's greatest film, 

Pathe's Weekly 

See If Every Week, Everywhere 




Any article universally used, must excel in merit. Isn't 
that true? The Paul Rainey and Carnegie Alaska- 
Siberia pictures are projected by Power's Camera- 
graphs only. Dwight Elmendorf, Lymcin H. Howe, 
Burton Holmes — lecturers of the highest standing — all use 
Power's Cameragraphs only. WHY? Because 
it is the machine that projects absolutely flickerless pictures 
and possesses individual features which, for fifteen years, 
have given it pre-eminence and procleiim it today the mod- 
em motion picture machine. 

Results count. That's why Power's Cameragraph 
does 60 per cent, of the moving picture machine business 
and is found in all the prominent houses in America. 

Power's Cameragraph is known around the world. 

Write for Catalogue M giving full details. 


For Fifteen Years the Leading Makers of Motion Picture Machines. 



Owing to tlie lnrse number of requests for information of a teohnieal nature that 
will not interest the general reader, The Motion Picture Story Magazine anuouuees 
the establishment of a 


whose services will be at the conunand of tlie readers of this magazine. 


Among those included on the staff are : 

E|ies Winthroii Sargent, who is an accepted authority on the details of House 
Management. Advertising. Road Management, etc. 

Will C. Smith will answer questions relating to the Motion Picture machines, their 
installation, use. etc. 

Mr. George C. Hedden, one of the best informed men In the world on all questions 
of film service, will have charge of that branch of the service. 
Electrical matters will be handled by an expert. 

By special arrnnf^eiiient the Bureau is able t<> announce tlie purely nominal fee of one 
dollar for each question that does not involve extended research. No charj^e fur addresses 
n'hen a stamped return envelope is sent. 

Arrangements can he made for special service hy corresiiondence. 


The Bureau will also act as Purchasing Agent for out-of-town exhibitors, and is 
in a position to command the lowest terms and quickest service. Correspondence is 

Address all communications TECHNICAL BUREIAU 


26 Court Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 



$500,000 GIVEN AWAY 

for admission to 

oving Picture Theatres 




This means money to you 


ot these 
coupons ^ 
are worth 
5 cents 


Assorted in Five series of 25 each. Order hy number, I, 2, 3, 4 or 5, 
and specify I-'4B4^%'s: desireck ^^ Uni|edf State|#Areece^rj|and. Elngland. 
Italy, France,^nf;]^^inf^*l^°^^4&^^V"tAwlV^>'y' Cana<ia. 
Turkey, Russia! 

specify Urge Butterfltl^Virf\q|m^!jlQfl 4] 


specify Lan 

-number, 1 or 2. and 

or 2* and 

Assorted in One series o^z5. Specify Large Animal Pet desired by 

""-'" "m£ AMfifOQAilf aiGfiACGO GO. 

Assorted in One series of 25. Specify Large Bathing Girl desired by 
number 1,2,3,4. 5 or 6. 

In case our stock of any of the above becomes exhausted, we reserve the 
right to substitute. (SEE OTHER SIDE^ 

ot these 

are worth 
5 cents 

These coupons are guaranteed, and wilt be redeemed in any quantities for their face value by 



if you have not. heard of this offer fill out 
the corner and post it to us and we will 
send full particulars. 

I am the owner of the undermentioned 







Ill Fifth Avenue 
New York